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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



PRAIRIE FLOWERS 
^ HEATHER BELLS 

Poems by MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 




ST. JOSEPH, MISSOURI 

1910 

AMERICAN PRINTING CO^tlPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



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Prairie flowers and heather bells, 
The sea divides your blossoms rare; 

Yet I would twine them in one wreath, 
To bloom together, fresh and fair. 

M. S. L. 



Copyriglit, 1910, by 
I^LIRIAX S. LIVERMORE 



€CI.A2?8929 



(By permission obtained several years before his death.) 

TO THE MEMORY OF IAN MACLAREN. 

(Rev. John Watson.) 

For sweet memories of my native home and for the 
great pleasure it has given me in my old age to read 
his writings, this volume is respectfully dedicated. — 

— M. S. L. 



'And thought how sad would be the sound 
On Susquehanna's swampy ground, 
Kentucky's wood -encumbered brake, 
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 
Where heart-sick exiles in the strain 
Recalled fair Scotland's hills again!" 

—Walter Scott. 



iY. 




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Marian Sorlie was born near Perthshire, Scotland, 
December 20th, 1827. 

She came to America in 1840, making her home 
first in Michigan. She attended high school in Bir- 
mingham, where her teachers "excused" her for al- 
ways writing her compositions in poetry, "because 
she could not help it." 

Later she moved to Detroit, where she attended a 
select school. She took a special course in science 
and languages, including philosophy, astronomy, 
French and Latin. 

In 1848 she moved to Cincinnati, Ohio, and two 
years later to St. Joseph, Missouri, where, on June 
19th, 1851, she was married to Granille P. Livermore. 

In 1853, after the death of her little daughter, to 
which she so touchingly alludes in "Little Belle, My 
Darling Daughter," Mrs. Livermore made her last 
visit to Scotland. 

She and her husband moved to Kansas with their 
family in 1856, locating at Palermo. In 1866 they 
came to Wathena, where Mrs. Livermore has since 
resided, Mr. Livermore having died in 1882. 

With the publication of this volume of poems the 
dearest hope of her life is realized. 

And now, at the age of eighty-three years, and 
blind, with that unalterable faith in God which has 
characterized her entire life, Marian S. Livermore 
calmly awaits the "touch that shall unloose the silver 
chord" and permit the "freed spirit to rise and greet 
a never-ending day." 

A FRIEND. 



OIont^ntB 

Page 

As Spring in Grassy Meadows 3 

And There Shall Be No More Sea 5 

Aurelian's Oath 21 

A Summer Morning Song 28 

Aldebaran 34 

Armenia 36 

An Autumn Night 37 

Aspirations 51 

Almond Water 58 

A Song of the Sea 59 

A Pleasant Call 62 

A Familiar Song 101 

Beyond the Dardanelles 10 

Bring Flowers 18 

Beautiful Mansions 42 

Beautiful Isle 46 

Beautiful Byes 70 

Balmy Spring 93 

Beauty and Song 99 

Cuiloden 19 

Courage, Cubans 29 

Childhood's Joys 46 

Cradle Song 76 

Cuba 83 

Christmas Bells 86 

Carina 89 

Decoration Day 42 

Don't Forget Your Mother 64 

Death of General Custer 65 

Dreamland 78 

Easter Lilies 61 

Emma 82 

Floris 3 

Fort Phil Kearney 24 

Fair Is the Cherry Tree 44 

Farewell to Scotland 73 

From the Glens 77 

Fate 100 

Guess Who 99 

He Giveth His Beloved Sleep 17 

Hearts of Gold 53 

Insomnia 35 

Immortelles 44 

vi. 



CONTENTS 



Page 

In Vain . .- 45 

Isabell 47 

Kate 6 

Leona 18 

Little Lawrence 33 

Little Belle, My Darling Daughter 54 

Logie Castle Gardens 56 

Little Willie 66 

Let Me Be Glad and Free 71 

Little Ralph 75 

Lawrence, Kansas 90 

Louis Napoleon at Windsor 95 

Logie Cottage 98 

May-Osh-Na-Qua 27 

Mater Doloroso , 30 

Miserere 48 

Memories 60 

Marjorie 68 

Mighty River, the Missouri 74 

Mary Mother 81 

Memories 84 

Mine in Heaven 86 

November Days 21 

Nettie 72 

Night at Lyndoch 80 

Nemesis 91 

On the Moor 4 

Our Flag 7 

October 23 

On the Brink 38 

Only a Lock of Hair 43 

O, Death, Where Is Thy Sting? O, Grave, Where 

Is Thy Victory? 55 

On the Verses to Almond Water 57 

Poor Carlotta 13 

Rose, Royal Rose 76 

Rest 97 

Songs in the Night 30 

Santa Monica 31 

Star with Beams so Dim and Holy 34 

Send Me a Bunch of Heather 50 

Sunflower and Heather 52 

Saint Joseph, From the Cliffs 88 

The Days of Long Ago 4 

The Burial at Sea 8 

The Scottish Shepherd 11 



vii. 



CONTENTS 



page 

To Mrs. J. E. S., St. Joseph 14 

To Mrs. T. C. F., St. Joseph 15 

Tochty and Drumtochty 16 

The Braes of Lyndoch 19 

To Miss Emma Sturtevant 20 

The Red Fox and the Raven 22 

To the Editor of The Chief 22 

The Virginius 25 

To Emma Sturtevant 32 

To Mrs. J. M. Melrose, Woodbine Cottage, Deeside 40 

True It Is 49 

Thoughts 52 

The Palace of Scone 56 

The Stormy Petrel 60 

To Miss Ellen Richards, Elland, Ohio 67 

To My Empire 73 

To Miss Jennie Smith, Vienna, Austria 79 

To Miss Edna W 82 

The Gem of the Antilles 83 

Thy Will Be Done 87 

The Birchen Bower 91 

To Miss Alice Carey 92 

To Esther Marie Libel 95 

The Bridge of Tay 96 

Viva Cuba Libre 26 

Vigils 40 

Vega Lyra 63 

Valley Home 69 

Vale 101 

Waiting By the Wayside 63 

Whom the Gods Love Die Young 78 

Who Giveth Us Songs in the Night 87 

Zula 36 



viii. 



AS SPRING IN GRASSY MEADOWS. 

"Yes Love indeed is light from heaven, 
A spark of that immortal fire." 

Oh, Love! whose light and glory 
Earth's dark clouds silver o'er. 

Deep stream without a shallow. 
Deep sea without a shore, 

Wherein Life's crystal waters 
With ceaseless music pour. 

As Spring in grassy meadows 
Wakes up the sleeping flowers, 

When kissed by golden sunbeams, 
And wet with April showers. 

So Love, the great life giver, 
Transfigures all the hours. 

As on the sloping hillsides. 

Caressed by summer air, 
A thousand fragrant blossoms 

Spring up without our care. 
To human hearts, love's sunlight 

Brings gifts as rich and rare. 



FLORIS. 

The maiden I love is more fair than a flower — 
There is none that with her can compare; 

The stars in the skies cannot rival her eyes. 
Or the gold of the sunset her hair. 

And the blush on her cheek, like the heart of a rose. 
When the zephyr has kissed off the dew! 

Though I worship in vain, there is bliss in the pain, 
My love is so tender and true. 

I have poured out the wealth of my spirit in song; 

But she turns from my pleading away. 
Lest one glance of her eyes take my heart by surprise, 

And turn all its night into day. 

Ah! sometimes I fear that my love is a dream — 

A spirit of beauty and light, 
That will vanish away with the dawning of day. 

And never more gladden my sight. 



PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 

There's a winding path on the hillside green — 

A path where the bluebells grow — 
Where the fairies danced in the moonlight's sheen, 

In the days of long ago. 

And we watched the flash of their twinkling feet. 

To music soft and low; 
Oh! there's nothing on earth so fair and sweet 

As the days of long ago. 

The fairy folks brought golden gifts, 

Of Music, and Love, and Song; 
But they dance no more on the greensv/ard smooth, 

The broomy knolls among. 

And, O, for the moonlit mountain glen, 

Where the murmuring waters flow; 
To see them now, as we saw them then. 

In the days of long ago! 

The years go by with flying feet. 

The summers come and go; 
But there's nothing on earth so fair and sweet 

As the days of long ago. 



ON THE MOOR. 

Ah! well I love old Scotia's moors. 

The heathery, mossy moors. 
Where the scattered fir grows far between, 
The tufted cotton-grass is seen. 
And brightly blooms the gay silene, 

On the brown, heathery moors. 

And sweetest there the wild bird sings 

Her song of gladness free; 
The pheasant, whirring through the air, 
Starts from its couch the timid hare — 
The roebuck from his hidden lair 

Bounds lightly o'er the lea. 

The lapwing dips its crested head 

The moorland path along; 
And the lark, up from its grassy nest. 
High over moor and mountain crest. 
Pours down from Heaven, like spirit blest. 

His sweet, melodious song. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



"AND THERE SHALL BE NO MORE SEA." 

It was summer, and the flowers were blooming; 

On the red clover blossom hum'd the bees; 
And the birds their sweetest songs were singing. 

In the branches of the green forest trees. 

The pale May flowers had all faded — 

Passing away so soon, — 
But the gardens were filled with the fragrance. 

Of the rich, red roses of June! 

Yet we saw not the green grass growing, 
Not one flower or a leaf on the tree; 

Far above us the blue sky was glowing, 
And beneath was the glittering sea. 

We missed not the bloom or the fragrance, 
For a love that time cannot destroy, 

Filled our hearts, as the glory of sunrise 
Fills the earth with the fullness of joy. 

O! brow, where there rested no shadow! 

And eyes where truth dwelt in a smile; 
O! heart once so brave and so tender! 

And lips all untainted with guile: 

Say, while in God's Eden you linger. 
Where the flov/ers of eternity bloom, 

And are gathered by angels' white fingers 
Does one wish in your bosom find room? 

I think that, though blessed forever, 
In the light of His presence we be. 

We would miss, while we wandered together. 
His boundless and beautiful sea. 

When freed from earth's toil and its sorrows, 
One boon our glad spirits might crave, 

That we frorr- our earth-home might borrow, 
The murmur and dash of its wave. 

For when on the dead past I ponder. 

Or dream of a future with thee; 
I sadly and silently wonder 

That "there shall be no more sea!" 



PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



KATE. 

Sit down by my side and listen, 

While a story true I tell, 
Of the bravest girl in Kansas, 

And the kindest heart as well. 
From those dark days of probation 

We have drifted fast and far, 
When over our troubled nation 

Rolled the purple tide of war. 

In one of its darkest winters, 

'Mid hardships bravely borne. 
While we looked with a cheerful courage 

For the dawn of a brighter morn; 
Gaily a mother at sunset sang. 

Glad, in her love and faith. 
That long ere the midnight hours had rung. 

Lay white, at the gates of deatn. 

And the father lifted the little ones. 

For one loving, last caress; 
But she could not raise her helpless hands. 

Their tear-stained cheeks to press. 
And she prayed that He who blessed them 

Would have them in his care; 
But only her pleading eyes could speak 

Her anguish and despair. 

Small hope had they the fleeting breath 

Would last till dawn of day; 
For skillful hands to combat death 

Were many a mile away. 
And the husband could not leave her. 

To ride for the needed aid; 
But there dwelt in that border household 

A bright young German maid. 

And she hushed the sobbing children, 

Quieting them, one by one. 
And all that a kind heart prompted 

Her willing hands had done. 
They wakened the sleeping neighbors. 

But the young men dare not go; 
For the river road was rough and steep. 

And hid by the falling snow. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



She did not fear the winter's storm, 

Or wait for the morning light; 
But wrapped (on a strong horse) well and warm. 

Rode away tlirough the murky night. 
Away, where the bluffs hung dark as doom, 

O'er the path by the river's side. 
And through the lonely forest gloom, 

Where the hooting owlets cried. 

Fast sped the horse (his master's pride). 

And the fearless girl rode well, 
Or the story of that midnight ride 

I had not lived to tell. 
The good horse died, where brave men fell, 

(We keep their memory green) ; 
But the bravest girl in Kansas 

Is a woman in Saline. 



OUR FLAG. 

Dedicated to the Veterans and the Sons of Veterans, 
July 4, 1898. 

Oh, colors dear! red, white and blue. 

The pure, the radiant and the true! 

Flag of the free! Flag of the brave! 

Baptized by many a crimson wave; 

In Freedom's battles nobly shed. 

By heroes numbered with the dead. 

Red, white and blue, thou wondrous three. 

Bright emblems of our unity 

And liberty, whose magic name 

Sets every generous heart aflame! 

Is not thy red the crimson stain 
That throbs in every patriot's vein. 
And freely as the rain would pour. 
Ere they shall see thee wave no more? 
Or with an alien flag replace 
The pride and glory of our race. 
Or see the temple of our trust 
Profaned or trampled in the dust? 

Thy white, like Heaven's descending snows. 
Pure as the holy flame that glows 
Within a people's heart for thee — 
Flag of the fearless and the free. 



PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



As gleams the rainbow's brilliant span, 
A pledge of hope from God to man, 
Wherever floats thy colors three — 
From Arctic to Antarctic sea — 
In Freedom's cause they lead the van, 
A pledge of Brotherhood to Man. 

Fair as our heavens thy star-gemm'd blue 
(Earth's truest, tenderest, loveliest hue) 
That miniatures to childish eyes 
The starry banner of the skies, 
Whose boundless azure folds are spread 
In glittering beauty overhead. 

How glows with pride the cheek of age. 
To read again each glorious page, 
Or to their listening children tell 
How fathers, brothers, comrades, fell, 
When many a hard-fought field was won, 
And many a generous deed was done. 

Around our hearts, flag of the free. 

We bind anew thy colors three, 

And pledge true loyalty again, 

In memory of our heroes slain; 

And though beneath that distant wave. 

Where rest in peace our honored brave, 

No fragrant flowers our hands can bring — 

The seas unceasing requiems sing. 

On Glory's roll their names appear, 
Our knights "without reproach or fear. 



THE BURIAL AT SEA. 

The ship lay becalmed on the ocean, 

And the sails from spar and mast 
Hung limp as the broken cordage. 

And the air, like a furnace blast, 
Made even the deck beneath them 

Seem hot as the desert sand — 
The casks of v.ater were empty. 

And the ship v%^as far from land. 

"Better the roar of the tempest. 
And the billovv^s mountains high. 

Than a dead calm in the tropics. 
With not a cloud in the sky." 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



Thus thought the brave sea Captain, 
A sou of the coast of Maine, 

As he paced the deck in silence. 
And prayed for the wind and rain. 

For the sailor's hands were idle. 

And scant was the store of bread; 
And a word of evil omen 

Had filled their minds with dread. 
As they scanned the glittering water. 

They whispered, with paling lip, 
"There is death in the air around us — 

The sharks are following the ship!" 

And one in the cabin lay dying — 

An aged man was he. 
Who had left the green isle of Erin, 

And trusted the treacherous sea. 
To follow a son or daughter 

To the far Nev/ England shore; 
But the days of his life were numbered: 

He would see the sun no more. 

The weary voyage was over, 

And the suffering soul, set free, 
Would "return to the God who gave it. 

And his dust to the deep, deep sea." 
There was only one weeping mourner, 

And he plead, with outstretched hand. 
To keep his father unburied 

Till the ship could reach the land. 

But, becalmed in a tropic ocean. 

His prayers could not avail. 
And a sail was his father's coffin. 

And his shroud was only a sail 
That shrank to each lifeless feature 

Like a death-mask, as he lay 
W^ith that cold, still face turned upward, 

Full in the light of day. 

No solemn bell was tolling. 

And only the sky o'erhead, 
While to hear the last rites spoken. 

They gathered around the dead. 
"I am the resurrection, 

And the life that is to be," 
Fell like a voice from Heaven 

Over the silent sea. 



10 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Then they raised the bier to the railing, 

While the last farewell was said, 
And the face of the bravest bearer 

Was white as the shrouded dead. 
Then, a trembling downward motion, 

And swift as the sea-bird's sweep. 
He sank to his grave in the ocean, 

A thousand fathoms deep. 



BEYOND THE DARDANELLES. 
"Coming events cast their shadows before." 

The tramp of armies shakes the earth. 

The air is filled with sounds of war; 
Where rolls the Danube to the sea, 

The mighty legions of the Czar, 
(The fair-haired legions of the North) 

Bear their victorious banner high, 
And all the slumbering isles of Greece 

Shall waken at their battle cry. 

The British lion sniffs the air. 

And shakes in wrath his tawny mane; 
The power that strikes the Moslem throne 

May threaten India's broad domain. 
Yet not for this shall England's Queen 

Clasp the vile Moslem's cruel hand, 
Or pledge to aid the Saracen 

The soldiers of a Christian land. 

Let France with England join her power. 

Forgetting ancient feud and wrong; 
King William's army stands at guard, 

A living wall, compact and strong. 
Rejoice, O, Greece! The day has dawned 

That brings redress for all thy wrongs; 
The valleys where thy children bled 

Shall echo with triumphant songs. 

The Turk may tremble on his throne, 

No earthly power his doom can stay; 
The Cross of Constantino must wave 

O'er all the realms that own his sway. 
The city of great Constantino, 

Where Grecian maids were bought and sold, 
And fair Circassians from the East, 

Are bartered for the Sultan's gold. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



Glory to God! The Crescent wanes! 

On, soldiers, at the Czar's command, 
Till all the vales of Palestine 

Are rescued from the Moslem's hand. 



THE SCOTTISH SHEPHERD. 

In these green Canadian forests, doth thy heart with 

rapture thrill. 
Shepherd, when a tale thou hearest of thy Caledonian 

hills? 
Thou are aged, bent, and hoary, and I am a child no 

more; 
Listen to a Scottish story, thou perhaps hast heard 

before : 

In a glen amid the mountains, where a clear, deep 
river flows. 

Flowers upon its banks are blooming, while the hills 
are crowned with snows; 

Foaming torrents madly leaping down the mountain's 
rocky side. 

While below the vale lies sleeping, parted by the crys- 
tal tide. 

Grassy parks and sloping woodlands in its circling 
bosom lie; 

Scenes of more romantic beauty never met the trav- 
eller's eye. 

—When December's snow was falling. Shepherd, on 
those Alpine hills. 

And December air, frost-laden, chained in ice the 
sparkling rills. 

Leaf and flower and tree were withered, all was 

gloom and horror then. 
While the wailing winds of winter woke the echoes 

of the glen; 
Blinding drifts and falling snow flakes hid the pine 

trees by the way; 
Not a peasant o'er his threshold would have crossed 

on such a day. 

One alone, on hill or valley, seems to brave the tem- 
pest's wrath — 

Some strong shepherd, moving slowly down the rug- 
ged mountain path; 



12 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Fearlessly he struggles onward, through the heaps 

of drifted snow. 
Carefully some gentle burden bearing to the vale 

below. 

Closely round his plaid he gathers, and the big tears 
dim his eye. 

As with throbbing heart he listens to a tender, plain- 
tive cry; 

Fainter grows the sound, and fainter — 'tis an infant's 
feeble wail; 

Nearer to his breast he fold it, lest its ebbing 
strength should fail. 

Hushed at last the moaning murmur, faintly falls the 

drooping head. 
And he knov/s not if his bosom bears the living or 

the dead. 
— On that infant's short existence never yet a sun 

had set: 
Shepherd, hadst thou heard the story, surely thou 

wouldst not forget. 

" 'Twas these arms that through the tempest bore 

that feeble, helpless babe. 
Pressed against my throbbing bosom, folded in my 

tartan plaid; 
Then my limbs were strong and active, now my raven 

locks are gray; 
Many a step, since then, I've wandered, but I'll ne'er 

forget that day. 

"Tell me, stranger, if thou knowest aught of that ill- 
fated child? 

If it reached the years of manhood, or if fortune 
frov/ned or smiled?" 

Passing years have left their traces. Shepherd, on 
that youthful brov/; 

Doomed, like thee, afar to wander, for it stands be- 
fore thee now! 

He who promised to the helpless, in their utmost 

hour of need, 
When all other friends forsook them. He would be a 

friend indeed, 
'Mid temptation, grief and danger, o'er life's dark and 

stormy way. 
Hath the "Gentle Shepherd" borne me, kindly as thou 

didst that day. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORK 



"POOR CARLOTTA." 

"The bravest are the tenderest, 
The loving are the daring." 

When the sun in splendor setting 

Leaves the evening star to reign, 
E'er the night brings sweet forgetting 

Of the burden of our pain; 
While the waves of day are ebbing 

In the twilight's silent hours, 
And the southern breeze comes sighing 

Over fields of tropic flowers; 
Comes a wail of deepest sorrow 

Thrilling all my soul with pain: 
"Poor Carlotta! Poor Carlotta!" 

Is the unvarying sad refrain. 

Years have passed since Maximilian 

Perished on that distant shore, 
Breathing forth that cry of anguish 

To be echoed evermore. 
Uncrowned king and conquered warrior, 

Girt by deadly foes he stands 
With no thought of home's sweet Eden 

In his distant Father-land. 
Not one sigh for life or empire: 

In his heart so brave and true 
Dwelt a love more pure and holy 

Than ambition ever knew. 

Broken-hearted Queen Carlotta! 

Empire he, and life laid down; 
Yet with dying words he crowned thee 

With love's own immortal crown. 
By a tyrant's mad ambition 

On unhallowed altar laid; 
Unto death betrayed, forsaken, 

By false-hearted friends betrayed. 
No reproach his pale lips uttered; 

Only with his latest breath 
Rose that wail of bitter sorrow — 

Love triumphant over death. 

Cruel foes their vengeance sated; 

Then his spirit pure and bright 
Changed the empire's royal purple 

For the ma.rtyr'8 robe of white. 
Poor Carlotta! Poor Carlotta! 

Life to thee had been so sweet; 



14 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



All the brightest flowers of Eden 
Blossomed round thy youthful feet; 

Hearts by perfect love united. 
Princely birth and beauty rare — 

Since the two who walked in Eden 
Earth held not a happier pair. 

Though our tears like rain-drops falling 

Blot the story of thy fate, 
Thou wert blessed amongst earth's daughters 

To have won a love so great, 
Won a heart so true and tender: 

All God's priceless gifts above, 
Life and joy and home and empire 

Well were lost for such a love. 
Broken-hearted Queen Carlotta! 

Soon, love's heavy cross laid down. 
Clothed in white thou'll walk together. 

Crowned with love's immortal crown. 



TO MRS. J. E. S., ST. JOSEPH. 

(In answer to her last words at parting.) 

My fair, sweet friend, how can I compliment thee 
In any measured phrase of prose or rhyme; 

More than when sitting, as I have, beside thee, 
Weaving each idle fancy into rhyme? 

And all the while my gaze delighted lingers 
On each familiar feature, faultless line, 

Even to the white tips of thy taper fingers. 

That with glad welcome, have been clasp'd in mine. 

Thy very presence to my heart seems grateful, 
Like balmy fragrance of a summer's day; 

Bringing sweet thoughts of violets and daisies. 
And fragrant blossoms, mid the new mown hay. 

Small need of words, my eyes might tell the story. 
How fair thy slight form in their sight appears; 

Since even time so lovingly glides o'er thee, 
He only marks the summers in thy years. 

Long years have pass'd since first we met together. 
With all their freight of hopes, and joys and fears. 

And pleasant hours we've passed with one another. 
And shed together unavailing tears. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 15 



We both have seen the loved and lovliest perish, 
Leaving but shadows round our darkened hearth, 

While naught seem'd left for us to love or cherish, 
And all the brightness faded from the earth. 

Oh, if beyond our darlings wait our coming. 
What are earth's sorrows? I would travel o'er 

lAfe's thorn'est road, and never, never murmur. 
To clasp my darling in my arms once more. 

Still in my heart though shrouded oft in sadness. 
Are pleasant memories we cannot forget; 

While not one feeling comes to mar the gladness. 
With which I look upon thy better fate. 

Where kindest friends with loving hearts surround 
thee, 

And willing hands thy path with roses spread. 
Amid the "depths" my weary feet are sinking. 

With blackest billows rolling over head. 

God knows the best, which path our steps should 
travel. 

Through flowery vales, or over rocky steeps; 
And He, Himself the mystery will unravel. 

When we beyond have wakened from death's sleep. 



TO MRS. T. C. F., ST. JOSEPH. 

Oh, lady, the glorious gift of song 
Is thy queenly dower by right divine; 

I would envy no queen her crown or power 
If that beautiful gift of God were mine. 

I can feel the light of thy soulful eyes 
While my own are full of tears unshed; 

Can I listen unmoved while thy sweet voice breathes 
The songs that were sung round my cradle bed? 

I hear the sound of my native rills 
Where the Lark soars up on quivering wing. 

While a shower of song from the heaven comes down. 
As sweet as that which the angels sing. 

It wakens memories deeper far 

When "morning life" and love were new. 

When the gates of heaven seemed left "ajar," 
And all its glory came raining through. 



16 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



I have heard those songs from the lips I loved, 
While the moonlight shone on the glittering sea, 

And eyes as blue as the heavens above. 
Seemed, oh! more beautiful far to me. 

The voice is hushed, the eyes are dim. 

And the lips of the singer are pale and cold. 

For the stormy sea in its cruel waves, 
Has dimmed forever those curls of gold. 

Oh, had I wild roses and heather bells 
With daisies that bloom on my native strand, 

I would twine a wreath for her brow who sang 
The dear old songs of my native land. 



TOCHTY AND DRUMTOCHTY. 

(There's just one bonnier river, and that's the Tochty — 
at a bend below the Lodge. — Ian Maclaren, in "Kate Car- 
negie.") 

Oh! the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom. 

With its golden tassels on the lea. 
Shall I never see the hawthorn bloom. 

Or the berries on the rowan tree? 
Only in dreams can I drink from the stream 

Where the crystal waters flow. 
Or lave my hands where the silver sands 

Belt the banks where the rowans grow. 

And my heart cries out, in its homesick pain. 

For the braes where my childhood played; 
The winding path by the water side. 

In the fragrant birch tree's shade. 
To hear in the morn from the flow'ring thorn 

The song that the linnet sings; 
Or the cuckoo's note through the greenwood float. 

As she heralds the coming spring. 

For I love the skies where my childish eyes 

First caught the light of day. 
And watched upon the green hillside 

The fleeting shadows play. 
And I love the sod where my footsteps trod. 

As the bird its native tree; 
As the sailor sighs for the beacon light. 

Sailing home from the western sea. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 17 



O, heath-clad hills, in your mantles brown — 

Shall 1 climb your heights no more? 
Ah! yes; for I know a day must dawn, 

That will open my prison door. 
Then my soul set free, like a bird shall flee 

To the braes where my childhood played; 
I shall drink from the streams that haunt my dreams, 
And rest in the rowan's shade. 

And light as the mist in the morning gray. 

Floating o'er tarn and fell. 
Brush the glittering dew from the tender fern, 

And the bloom from the heather bell. 
For my spirit free, like a bird will flee, 

Far away to my native shore. 
And drink from the streams that haunt my dreams, 

And sigh for my home no more. 



"HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 

Step softly; do not wake her, for she sleeps; 

You would not bring her back to earth again. 
Up yonder — where there are no tears to weep, 

While here is sorrow, anguish, and deep pain. 

See you the smile upon her parted lips, 

And how peace rests upon her brow, and say, 

"Her spirit, brighter for death's short eclipse. 
Shines in the raidiance of eternal day." 

Could we, who loved her, bring her back to life. 
Shrouding her spirit in a pall of fear, 

V/hen she is now a victor in the strife. 
And earth's dark riddles are at least made clear? 

And if they were not— if like leaves we fall. 
Like leaves to perish on the verdant sod. 

And He who gave, in taking life, takes all — 
The dust to dusts, the spirit to its God; 

And when earth folds us in her chill embrace, 
Sealing her conquest with a death cold kiss. 
How sweet such sleep, although to wake no more, 
After the fever of a life like this. 



PRAIRTE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



LBONA. 

(Written upon the occasion of the death of Leona V. 
Mokel, at New Millport, Pa., November 19th, 1880.) 

Weep, for the light of the household hath perished ; 
The brightness of morning hath darkened to 
gloom ; 
The flower of all summer — flower fairest, most cher- 
ished — 
Hath faded untimely and rests in the tomb. 

Sweet to the Reaper the breath of such blossoms; 

He culls for the Master the gems we adore, 
And gathers the buds that have bloomed on our 
bosoms 

To open where sorrows shall enter no more. 

Vainly our aching hearts yearn to caress thee; 

Never again shall that blessing be given; 
For the dear lips just learning Earth's lessons to 
utter, 

Are taught by the angels the language of Heaven. 

Farewell to thee, darling, no sorrow can reach thee; 

No pain shalt thou suffer; no tear shalt thou shed; 

The angels, who love thee, shalt guard thee and teach 

thee. 

While friends, broken hearted, are mourning thee 

dead. 

"BRING FLOWERS." 

Bring flowers to the Printer's busy room; 
Let them fill the air with a sweet perfume. 
By the weary desk where he stands all day. 
Through the sultry heat of the summer ray; 
Their beauty will brighten the lagging hours — 
To the Printer's desk send flowers, fresh flowers. 

Never a glance at the field or skies, 

To rest, with their freshness, his weary eyes; 

Only the noonday's scorching heat. 

Beating fiercely down on the dusty street; 

From the cool, sweet shade of the garden bowers. 

For the Printer's desk cull the fairest flowers. 

Lost were the wisdom of ancient day. 

Withered the warrior's laurel bay, 

The poet's song and the sage's thought, 

All lost if the Printer labored not. 

While one loving, grateful thought is ours. 

Crown the Printer's brow with a wreath of flowers. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 

THE BRAES OP LYNDOCH. 

To Mrs. J. M. Welrose, Dunedin, New Zealand. 

The sun shines bright on Logie, 

And Lyndoch's wooded braes. 
Where, rippling o'er its rocky bed. 

The Almond Water strays; 
And clear the blue sky overhead. 

And birds sing on the spray, 
Where Almond's sparkling waters wed 

The silver-rolling Tay. 
And the gray old towers of Scone look down 

From storied heights, to see 
The tribute from her mountains brown 

Sweep onward to the sea. 

The sun shines bright on Logie, 

And soft the moonbeams fall 
O'er many a moss-grown turret 

And ivy-covered wall. 
And brighter glowed the Christmas fire. 

While fast the snowf lakes fell; 
But the ocean rolls between us now. 

And leagues of land, as well. 
And, oh! to watch the silver moon. 

High o'er "Clan Alpine's" pine. 
And hear thee sing of "Bonnie Doon," 

And "The Days of Auld Lang Syne." 



CULLODEN. 

Forget not the field of Culloden. 

Nor the brave in that battle who fell. 
When their dust 'neath the dark moor is trodden 

Shall their memory perish as well? 

No; while from the wild Nothern ocean 
To the green sunny banks of the Tweed; 

One thought can awaken emotion. 
One heart for its Country can beat. 

Though dark is the page of her story, 

Yet darker, far darker, the stain. 
That shall tarnish the conqueror's glory; 

While the moor of Culloden remain. 



20 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



The conqueror revelling in carange, 

Who in triumph exultingly rode 
O'er the foe that in battle had fallen, 

'Till his housings were dappled with blood. 

Who returned from the chase of the flying, 
While his sword with their slaughter yet red 

Was sheathed in the hearts of the dying, 
And pierced the cold breasts of the dead. 

Ye may weep o'er the red field of Flodden, 
But, thoughts dark as the spirit of war, 

Are aroused by the narne of Culloden, 
From Durness to the hills of Braemar. 

While England, repeating the story, 

Shall blush for her Cumberland's shame, 

That blot on the record of glory. 

And wipe from her annals his name. 



TO MISS EMMA STURTEVANT. 

Rock Falls, Illinois. 

Oh, where is my beautiful friend? I have listened 

and waited so long, 
While I pine for the clasp of her hand, and the music 

of her song. 
And why art thou silent, my friend ? Hast thou never 

one word of cheer, 
Ere the night of our pilgrimage end, and the dawn 

from beyond breaketh clear? 

I sink in the darkness alone, and my heart is sore 

afraid. 
For I thought that the Father of all had forsaken the 

soul He made; 
And I looked to the heavens above, but the gates 

were no more ajar. 
Though the light of His glory and love streamed down 

from each radiant star. 

I worshipped their splendor afar, where they glitter 

and burn and glow, 
But they brought on their trembling beams no balm 

for a mortal woe; 
And my soul, though it liveth, seems dead, but thy 

voice might awake it again. 
For the depths of a woman's love alone can fathom 

a sister's pain. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 21 



NOVEMBER DAYS. 

November days will soon be here, 
Our votes will tell the story; 

We follow where McKinley leads, 
To victory and glory. 

Republicans are marching on. 
They gather late and early; 

Their banners on our Kansas hills 
Are up and floating fairly. 

Ohio and the Sunflower State 
Stand side by side, together; 

The craft that sails La Belle Riviere, 
Shall never sail "Salt River." 

Then buckle on your armor, boys, 
(Your votes will tell the story,) 

And follow where McKinley leads. 
To victory and glory. 



(Translated from the French.) 
AURELIAN'S OATH. 

When Aurelian came before Tyrene's walls, 
His herald, with trumpet and culverin. 

To the daring rebels did loudly call: 
"Open your gates — let the Emperor in!" 

No answer came from the silent towers. 

It roused to fury Aurelian's ire; 
A threatening cloud on his forehead lowers, 

And his dark eyes flash with an angry fire. 

In his wrath this fearful oath he took, 
(While his eager soldiers shout again) : 

"I v/ill not leave a dog alive 
In a city so full of rebel men!" 

With the hope of booty they fiercely fought. 
Till the conquered city before them lies. 

And the glittering spoils by their valor bought — 
They want but his word for their well-earned prize. 

"Remember your promise!" his legions cry; 

"I will," said Aurelian, and thus began: 
"Slay the dogs, if you will, leave not one alive; 

But he forfeits his life who harms a man!" 



22 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 

THE RED FOX AND THE RAVEN. 

The red fox and the raven; 

Oh, they were unco'sly, 
They entered into partnership 

To bully, cheat and lie. 

The raven did the talking, 

Though his voice wasn't clear; 

The red fox squatted near him 
With would-be cunning leer. 

To wit, the fox made no pretense, 
But briskly trotted round, 

And what the raven lacked in sense 
He just made up in sound. 

To see that raven wink his eyes — 

The fox with nose in air. 
Would make the very gravest smile, 

At such a comic pair. 

Should Barnum visit Kansas 
In search of something nice. 

The red fox and the raven 
Would bring a heavy price. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE CHIEF. 

Troy, Kansas. 

Tell me of Ohio's hills shining in the morning sun. 

And her flowery, fertile vales, darkening when day 

is done. 
Tell me of her sparkling streams, broad and deep and 

crystal clear. 
Fairer have you ever seen than the matchless "Belle 

Rivere," 

Where Kentucky's wooded hills, mirrored on the riv- 
er's breast, 

Overlook Ohio's pride, the "Queen City" of the West, 

And the stately mansions rise from among the forest 
trees. 

And her happier cottage homes, bright with flowers 
and birds and bees? 

Bring me garlands from the woods, and the perfume 
of the flowers. 

Though our Kansas fruits we boast, yet her fame out- 
rivals ours; 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



For that land of sunny skies, fertile fields and balmy 

air, 
Yet a richer treasure yields, brave, true men and 

daughters fair. 

Who among her sister States hath a brighter record 

won. 
From the "stranger at the gates" to her last and 

noblest son; 
From that loved and sacred tomb where the martyred 

Garfield rests, 
To the Poet-Sisters' home, on Mount Pleasant's sunny 

breast? 

Have you seen the vale beyond, lovelier than a fairy 
dream. 

While the harvest moon looked down on Miami's sil- 
ver stream? 

How each well-remembered scene rises on my mind 
today — 

Winding paths, 'mid woodlands green, dappled by the 
sunbeam's play. 

How clear the sparkling waters flow, how fragrant 
bloom the wildwcod flowers, 

Where in summers long ago once we spent such 
happy hours; 

And the memory of those days, through long years 
remenibei'ed well, 

Prompt the words we fondly say, "I, too, did in Ar- 
cadia dwell." 



OCTOBER. 

October, the golden and glorious, 

Has followed the years that are dead, 

And his bier, like some warrior victorious. 
With banners of crimson is spread. 

The sun in the clouds hides his splendor. 
The moon's waning crescent grows pale. 

While the earth, in her sorrow, draws round her 
A floating, impalpable veil. 

The streams to each other cease calling, 
The winds are all hushed into sleep. 

And the dew, that like tear-drops is falling. 
Is chilled into frost as they weep. 



24 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



He had pressed the red wine from the vintage, 
And the orchard its tribute had paid, 

But the last of her hours have been numbered. 
Ere the bright plumes of autumn could fade. 

The May-time spring's beauty uncloses. 
And the breath of her violets is sweet, 

While June, in a garland of roses. 
Held us captive with love at her feet. 

But October was "born in the purple," 
And reigned with a glory his own. 

Then gathered his garments around him, 
And died, like a king on his throne. 



FORT PHIL KEARNEY. 

("But there was one of the brave boys in blue, whom 
neither their arrows or bullets would fell. Though he 
had numberless wounds, he stood up and fought hand 
to hand till overwhelmed by their closing upon him, 
and carried him off a prisoner to their camp, where he 
was finally tortured to death." — Weekly Herald.) 

Oh last and bravest of the band. 

By Kearney's fortress slain — 
Can we withhold the avenging hand. 

Or tears that fall like rain? 

No! while our hearts to noble deeds 

And generous thoughts are true. 
We shall not cease to mourn thy fate. 

Our brave, lost "boy in blue." 

Vv'^e cannot even know thy name, 

Or where thy home might be — 
Whether on plains of Illinois 

Or rocky Tennessee. 

We only know how brave they fought. 

How fearfully they fell — 
When thronged around those savage forms, 

And rose their fiendish yell. 

From foes more cruel than the fiends. 

Resistless as the wave. 
In vain we stretch our helpless hand, 

Too late, too late to save. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 25 



But by thy tortures at the stake, 

And by thy courage true. 
Shall brothers' hands avenge thy death, 

Our slaughtered "boys in blue." 

We know beneath ten thousand breasts 

That wear the loyal blue, 
Throb hearts as brave as ever beat. 

As tender and as true. 

And while we have but tears to give. 

To mourn the fatal blow — 
Their manly hands can grasp the steel, 

And crush the treacherous foe. 

Let England boast her soldiers proud, 
And Prance her warriors, too, 

That fell before Malakoff, 
Or died at Vv^aterloo; 

But more than Prance's legions grand. 

Or English soldiers true, 
Columbus' brave heroic band. 

Our noble "boys in blue." 



THE VIRGINIUS. 
"Sunk Off Cape Fear." 

Shot to death! by the fierce, cruel tj-rants of Spain, 
In the pride of their manhood they fell. 

Scarcely time given to utter a prayer. 
Or bid their brave comrades farewell. 

To the heart of the nation, the outrage was felt. 

And a pleading and agonized cry 
Came up from the soul of a people aroused; 

"Shall they die unavenged? Shall they die?" 

"They have given up the ship, they've saluted the 
flag," 

It was thus our wise statesmen replied. 
E'er the funeral bells had ceased tolling their knell. 

Or the tears on our cheeks had been dried. 

"They've surrendered the ship, they've saluted the 
flag. 

What more can our people demand?" 
Oh, shame to a nation where honor is dead. 

And justice hath fled from the land. 



26 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Shall the nation accept such a pitiful price 
For the deeds that the Spaniard hath done, 

Is the poor, battered wreck that has sunk off Cape 
Fear 
Of more worth than the life of her sons? 

Add this to thy trophies, Oh, jubilant sea! 

Laugh loud in your scorn, Oh, ye waves! 
For the ship that lies rotting, down eight fathoms 
deep. 

Was bought with the blood of the brave. 



"VIVA CUBA LIBRE." 

Cuba free! Cuba free! 

We shall hail tho welcome day. 
When fair Cuba's Isle shall be 

Free from Spanish power and sway. 

Dungeon, banishment and rack 

Cuban patriots must know, 
Spain to win her "Jewel" back 

Triumphs in a nation's woe. 

Monarchs aid each other's cause — 
Have the people less at stake? 

Is there aught in honor's laws 
Bids us the oppressed forsake? 

Should our former foes again 

Join in one unholy band. 
Must a people call in vain. 

And we lend no helping hand? 

Oh! that in our own free land 
Might arise some Lafayette, 

With brave heart and generous hand 
Aid a wronged and struggling State. 

Spain will send her tyrants proud. 
Legions of fierce volunteers — 

Fields are wet with Cuban blood. 
Banners wet with maiden's tears. 

Cuban matrons, well we know 
Every pang your hearts must feel; 

Loved ones fall at every blow 
Of the vengeful Spanish steel. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 27 



They have served their country well 
Who a fearful death have braved; 

Never where such heroes fell 
Can a people live enslaved. 

There a prophet's voice inspired 
Fearless Leon, hero brave; 

Now that heart by freedom fired 
Fills a martyr's sacred grave. 

Shouting with thy latest breath 
Words that ring from hill to sea. 

Unto tyrants scorn and death. 
And to Cuba, Liberty! 



"MAY-OSH-NA-QUA." 

By the blue lakes of Michigan, 
Long years ago, one summer day. 

Where silvery beech and pine trees grow, 
I met thee first, May-osh-na-qua. 

The humble cabins of the tribe 

Stood sheltered by the woodland trees. 

And past the line of snow-white sand, 
The waters rippled in the breeze. 

The painted warriors all were gone. 
And free we roved the forest glade. 

When first upon our eyes there shone 
The beauty of an Indian maid. 

She spoke few words in English tongue. 
Nor I the language of her tribe; 

But where we were she lingered long. 
Or followed closely by my side. 

And when beneath one roof we met. 

While the good teachers read and prayed. 

More eyes than mine with tears were wet. 
To hear such hymns from youth and maid. 

We sat beneath the forest trees. 

Or wandered o'er the lake shore sands; 

Our only language was our eyes. 

And the warm clasp of friendly hands. 



28 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



And when with faces homeward turned, 
We lingered there at close of day, 

Too sad our last farewell to take, 
But most with thee, May-osh-na-qua. 

She pressed her small hand on my cheek. 

Then touched her own, and thus did say 
(True pledge of Indian friendship then) : 

"Me Marian; you, May-osh-na-qua." 



Two score and ten, the years have fled — 
I keep the memory of that day — 

But, with the living or the dead, 

Where art thou now, May-osh-na-qua? 

I know not if she found a grave 

Beneath that spreading greenwood tree. 

Or lived to wed some warrior brave, 
Whose children roam the forest free. 

But long I bore my Indian name — 
Dear comrades of that happy day, 

If the bright past remembrance claim, 
You still recall "May-osh-na-qua." 



A SUMMER MORNING SONG. 

He rises o'er the eastern hills, 

The sun! the sun! 
The waking earth with gladness thrills, 
That laughs and gleams from sparkling rills, 
And ail the air with music fills. 

When day's begun. 

The humble Parsee bends the knee; 

His God, the sun. 
And man and beast, and flower and tree, 
And all the worshippers of thee. 
All smile v/ith joy thy face to see — 

O, Summer Sun! 

When rising from the Orient sky 

The monarch comes. 
Then cold and ill and darkness fly, 
And death-distilling vapors die. 
And all tnmgs evil shun thine eye, 

O, glorious sun! 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 29 



We hail with joy thy earliest ray. 

Bright morning sun; 
But hide us from thy noontide blaze, 
Nor dare upon thy face to gaze, 
And sadly watch with passing days 

The setting sun. 

Our earth were but a lifeless clod 

Without the sun. 
The bright face of the radiant god 
Looks down and beauty decks the sod; 
He rules us with no tyrant's rod — 

Vice-regent Sun. 

The fairest queens, like blossoms, fade 

Beneath the sun; 
And kings within their tombs are laid, 
Their sceptres and their crov/ns decayed. 
While over all, his course unstayed, 

Still shines the sun. 

He holds undimmed his glorious way — 

Live-giving sun! 
And rules his realms with even sway. 
Dividing darkness from the day. 
While thrones and empires pass away 

Beneath the sun. 



COURAGE, CUBANS. 

Falter not, ye Cuban heroes, 

Faithful to your trust remain; 
Better dead on field of battle, 

Than to live the slaves of Spain. 
When you gather 'round your camp-fires. 

To your weary comrades tell 
How brave Leon nobly perished — 

How your patriot brothers fell. 

Tell of Cuban maid and matron, 

Led to death by Spanish bands; 
While, like flaming swords of vengeance, 

Gleam the bayonets in their hands. 
And the battle-cry of Freedom 

Echoes from each hill and plain: 
Liberty to Cuban patriots, 

Or eternal hate to Spain. 



30 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 

SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 
"827, U. P." 

There's a flash thro' the gathering darkness, 

The signals fiery gleam. 
And we hear the strong heart throbbing, 

Whose pulses and breath are steam. 
There's a sound like the beat of breakers, 

Where stranded ships are lost. 
Or the voice of the wind in the forest, 

When its trees are torn and tossed. 

Do the cliffs look down in wonder 

At the sound of thy coming feet? 
And the cataract cease its thunder 

Where the foaming waters meet? 
In the lair of the mountain lion 

Do the young cubs cease their play, 
When up where the eagle is flying 

She speeds on her fearless way? 

Skillful the hands that wrought thee. 

And wise the brain to plan. 
When a ray from the Master's wisdom 

Illumined the mind of man, 
Did they breathe in those mighty nostrils 

The life of a human soul. 
When the thought of man created 

The powers that his will control? 

Thy strength is clothed in beauty. 

And curbed in its fiery zeal; 
For the bands of thy glittering harness 

Are wrought of the tempered steel. 
There is life in thy cry of warning. 

And the sound of thy panting breath — 
They have passed, and the silence and darkness 

Fall down, like the hush of death. 



MATER DOLOROSO. 

A mother sat by a cradle bed. 

And softly she rocked and sung. 
But ever the tears fell down her cheeks. 

And she sang with a faltering tongue. 

And sadly she looked on the sleeping child, 

As she rocked it to and fro; 
I'or she thought of the babes she had rocked to sleep. 

In the years of long ago. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



For life had never a joy so deep, 

And never an hour so blest, 
As when she had sung her babes to sleep. 

Close clasped to their mother's breast. 

But one, the first, and fairest of all. 

Had folded her dimpled hands. 
And closed her beautiful eyes in death, 

To wake in the "Better Land." 

And others, away in the "land of gold," 

Had grown to bearded men, 
And never would know their mother's face, 

It had been so changed since then. 

And she longed for the love that was hers no more, 

Till her heart cried out in pain: 
"Dear Lord, give back, for one blest hour. 
The loved and lost again!" 

Then the sleeping babe woke up and smiled, 
And she said: "He hath heard my prayer; 

When I wake from sleep in that better land, 
He will gather my children there." 



SANTA MONICA. 

Beyond the Sierra's peaks and snows. 
Where blooms the valley like the rose. 
And crystal stream to ocean flows. 
Amid thy hills, San Monica. 

The blue Pacific ebbs and swells, 
With murmurs sv/eet as evening bells, 
O'er golden sands and pearly shells 
Of sea-washed Santa Monica. 

Here the true "Paradise regained" — 
A broader Eden blooms again. 
Where tropic fruit and golden grain 
Enrich fair Santa Monica. 

O, wondrous land! I think, in sooth, 
The fairy tales that charmed our youth- 
Alladdin's lamp, in very truth, 
Exists in Santa Monica, 



32 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



And bids the geni of the mine 

Heap the warm vales with gifts divine — 

A new-found, beauteous Palestine, 

Whose heart shall be San Monica. 

Though life is cold, and joy has flown, 
A distant hand seems beckoning on. 
Where health and hope may yet be won, 
In far-off Santa Monica. 

We counted once our wealth in gold, 
But Fortune's wheel hath backward roU'd, 
And left us now the living gold 
Of five stout boys, San Monica. 

We bring not to that promised land 
Unwilling feet or helpless hand, 
For Labor is the magic wand 
To build up Santa Monica, 

That, waved above the silent shore. 
Shall wake the city's ceaseless roar. 
While Vv^ealth from land and sea shall pour. 
And crown fair Santa Monica. 

Marts, golden-domed, shall rise complete 
Above thy seaward sloping street. 
And ships from Orient climes shall meet 
Within thy bay, San Monica. 

Oh, Fate! at which I cavil not, 
Yet wonder at my changeful lot, 
Be thy perversity forgot, 

In distant Santa Monica. 

Grant me but this: to feast my eye 
On flowery fields that smiling lie 
Beneath the Californian sky 

That bends o'er Santa Monica. 



TO EMMA STURTEVANT, 
Rock Falls, Illinois. 

Thanks, sister, for thy cheering word, 
That came like music from afar, 

Clear as the notes of spring's first bird. 
And welcome as its tidings are. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



I cannot see thy fair, bright face. 
Or clasp in mine thy friendly hand; 

But on my heart thy words are traced — 
Not written as on ocean sand. 

I sighing said: "I'll write no more; 

I have no claim to poet's art; 
My thoughts return unto me void. 

Nor wake an echo in one heart. 

"To aid the right, resist the v/rong. 
Through love to win, I vainly ask; 

There is no music in my song — 
Alas! it is a fruitless task." 

Then, from the plains of Illinois, 

Came, clear and sweet, thy answering song- 
A bugle note from poet lips 

To bid my fainting heart be strong. 

Thy loving hands in thought I press. 
Though broad prairies intervene. 

And with my warmest wishes bless 
The poet friend I ne'er have seen. 



LITTLE LAWRENCE. 

A white chrysanthemum, a golden rose. 

Clasped in the unconscious fingers of the dead, 

He sleeps; but, ah! not now. 
Within the soft folds of his cradle bed, 

Though fragrant, snovz-white flowers 

Make a sweet pillov/ for the dear tired head. 

Not rocked to sleep with murmured cradle songs. 

To waken soon again. 
Hushed by a mother's deep, heart-broken sigh. 

And tears that fall like rain 
Over the cold brow and the closed blue eyes 

That v/ake no more to weariness and pain. 

A smile still lingers on his parted lips, 

Altho' those lips are dumb; 
For the closed eyes had opened last to see 

Bright guardian spirits come; 
The loving heart had felt their fond embrace, 

Beckoning him swiftly to that "Better home." 



34 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



STAR WITH BEAMS SO DIM AND HOLY. 

Star with beams so dim and holy, 

Looking down thus melancholy, 
Through the atmosphere that ever 

Like a misty veil surrounds thee, 
Whispering to the tranquil river 

Of the worlds that circle round thee. 

Tell me all thy wondrous story, 

While I listen thus before thee; 
Tell me, for my spirit pineth 

All the mystery to know 
Of the radient orbs that shineth 

Brightly on this world of woe. 

From thy ruby throne afar, 

Listen to me, pale-beamed star — 
Pensive dost thou seem, and lonely, 

From thy brethren far apart; 
And I might not ask thee, only 

Something seems to tell my heart — 

That thou art akin to earth. 

For some shadow since thy birth. 
O'er thy radient brow hath fallen, 

Telling that thy youth is o'er; 
And the brightness of thy morning. 

Glads thy sister stars no more. 



ALDEBARAN. 

Bright Aldebaran, fairest of the stars 

That gem the skirt of autumn's azure robe. 

Thy golden beams down trembling from afar, 
Make glad the dwellers on this lesser orb. 

Radiant in beauty are the starry hosts 

That circle near thee on their ruby thrones. 

Yet when the soul's in contemplation lost — 
The eye, the spirit, dwell on thee alone. 

Though Sirius near thee wears his glittering crown, 
And bright Capella by thy side arise. 

While the pale Pleaides look calmly down, 
To claim the homage of our heart and eyes. 



POEIMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



And grand Orion, with an outstretched hand, 
Amid his crowned brethren moving on. 

Like an archangel 'mid the radiant band 

That hold their places near the eternal throne. 

None, Aldebaran, moves my heart like thee; 

I gaze upon thy far-off golden light 
Until my heart thrills like the restless sea. 

Beneath the influence of the orb of night. 

Then, ever fairest where all glorious are, 
Like glittering gems upon the throne of God, 

Would that among the everlasting stars 

My chastened spirit might choose its abode. 

Freed from the outward fetters of this clay, 
I'd walk the earth in weariness no more. 

But, guided onward by thy trembling rays, 
Seek the pure spirits of that happier shore. 



INSOMNIA. 

"Nothing- in the wide world 
So beautiful as sleep." 

When through the watches of the night. 

Sleep from our pillows flees afar, 
While darkness glows like m.orning light, 

And thought speeds swift from star to star, 
Sleep, like a benediction, falls, 

A boon to bless, to clasp, and keep. 
When He whose love encircles all, 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Earth has her treasures rich and rare. 
Prom mountain top to deepest mine; 

But rest, forgetfulness, and sleep — 

These, more than all, are gifts divine. 

Then, send thy guardian angels down. 
Their watch around our couch to keep; 

So may we, by their pinions fanned. 
Like sinless, happy children sleep. 

Let the wild waves of troubled thought 
Subside, obedient to Thy will, 

As sank the waves of Galilee, 

When Jesus bade them "Peace, be still!" 



88 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



ARMENIA. 

Where are they helpers, Armenia? 

Why have their hands been stayed? 
Do the rulers of empires tremble, 

As trembles a frightened maid? 

Why have they forged their cannon, 
And builded their ships of war? 

Where are thy steel-clad legions, 
Kaiser, and King, and Czar? 

The earth has yielded her harvest, 

That armies might be fed; 
They have taken the father's labor. 

And scanted the children's bread. 

The mines have given their diamonds, 
The mountains their stores of gold; 

While the toil of weary millions 
Has garnered wealth untold. 

Great are the gifts of the people — 

What do their rulers bring? 
Are war-ships and mighty armies 

Only the toys of kings? 

"Hast thou put thy trust in princes. 
And thy faith in the children of men?' 

Oh! desolate land of Armenia, 
Weep o'er thy children slain! 

The rulers are stricken with blindness- 
Lord, come to the help of Thine own! 

Smite with the sword of Thy justice 
The power of the Moslem throne. 

Our hearts are weary with waiting — 
Weary of outrage and wrong; 

Why do Thy chariot wheels linger? 
Why dost Thou tarry so long? 



ZULA. 
For Hattie — August 1st. 

The grass is green beneath the trees, 

Where little Zula played; 
The song of birds, the hum of bees. 
Are borne upon the summer breeze, 

That ripples in the shade. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 37 

The voice of children in their play. 

Rings out upon the air; 
The merry laugh of little girls, 
The sunny gleam of tangled curls: 

But Zula is not there. 

Still hangs beneath the arbor shade, 

The swing on which she swung, 
When autumn turned the berries red. 
And purple clusters overhead 

Among the green leaves hung. 

Her play-house by the eastern wall 

Stands silent and alone, 
Where once she rocked and nursed her doll. 
Or played with blocks and rubber ball; 

But where has Zula gone? 

Upon the far Pacific shore, 

Beside the Western Sea, 
She sleeps, unwaked by ocean's roar, 
And those who loved her, never more 

Her living face shall see. 

I cannot check the tears that come 

At thought that she is dead: 
The birds will sing, and bees will hum, 
But never more her feet will come 

To pleay beneath the shade. 

Ah! life is but a sad, short dream. 

And they are happiest far, 
Who find, in childhood's sinless years, 
(Ere grief has come, with pain and tears,) 

A home beyond the stars. 



AN AUTUMN NIGHT. 

"When the first watch of the night was kept 

By the red planet Mars," 
And the moon shone full in the heavens above. 

Eclipsing half the stars. 
Perfect and round as a silver shield, 

With light so clear and pure, 
(How strange our Earth hath ills so deep 

No ray from Heaven can cure) ; 



38 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 

While Lyra bears her glittering harp 

Adown the western sky, 
And in the north Capella shines, 

Where fleecy clouds drift by; 
And high above the eastern hills, 

W^here the pale Pleiads are. 
Bright Aldebaran's beams grow dim 

In the red light of Mars; 

And Jupiter in the heavens above 

Burns with a golden glow, 
Like the star that over Bethlehem 

Shone, centuries ago; 
And the full moon cannot dim thy light, 

Crowned Emperor of the sky. 
Though she floods the earth with radiance bright. 

From the "clear obscure" on high; 

While the wind from the south blows soft and strong, 

And bends like a tapering mast 
The tall tree-tops, where the quivering leaves 

Are waiting November's blast; 
Long years ago, in a night like this. 

We felt the sea-breeze blow. 
And watched the stars in the sky o'erhead. 

And their light in the waves below; 
While the ships lay safe in the sheltered bay. 

Though we heard the distant roar 
Of Ocean's swell, where the great sea waves 

Beat upon a rocky shore. 

The stars look down, and the soft winds blow, 

But the dreams of youth are past. 
And its hopes have perished long ago. 

Like leaves in the autumn blast; 
While haunting memories stir the heart. 

Beneath the radiant stars, 
"When the first watch of the night is kept 

By the red planet Mars." 



ON THE BRINK. 

On the brink of that dread region. 
All unknown and unexplored. 

Where from countless passing legions 
None to earth shall be restored, 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



Swiftly flies life's rosy morning, 
On to manhood's glorious prime: 

Better fall amid the conflict. 
Than by slow decay of time; 

For the weight of age and sorrow 
Presses hard on heart and brain, 

When the faltering steps go downward, 
Never to remount again. 

Ah! the blessed little children. 
Dying without dread or fears; 

Yet the voice of Rachel weeping. 

Sounds through all the passing years. 

Down life's swift, resistless current. 

We can only, as we go, 
Add a little to the sunshine, 

Take a little from its woe. 

But within youth's sheltered harbor, 
We shall anchor never more. 

But sink amid the storms of ocean, 
Or drift a wreck upon its shore. 



Who has not heard the sacred promise made. 
Ere death's cold fingers loosened earthly bond; 

"I will return ere dust to dust is laid. 
And tell the mystery of the great beyond." 

Dear broken promises, ye do but show 

How fixed the laws that bind the power of man; 
How dark the veil that hides our future fate, 

How deep the gulf no mortal love can span. 

In vain we listen for the "still, small voice," 
Whose whispered words might all our doubts dis- 
pel; 

That tale no mortal ear shall ever hear. 
Or any passing soul return to tell. 

And yet, perhaps, in some bright world afar, 
Emerging from the shadow of the grave, 

They rise all glorious like the morning star, 
And find a happiness earth never gave. 



40 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 

VIGILS. 

Mothers o'er their children bending, 

Love to watch their slumbers deep; 
With light touch the soft curls parting, 

Fondly kiss the rosy cheek; 
Little hearts may have their sorrows. 

Tears will stain the tender cheek; 
But with smiles they wake to-morrow — 

Mother kissed them in their sleep. 

When, like grieved and wayward children, 

We, too, sob ourselves to sleep. 
Then, perhaps, some pitying angel 

Stoops to kiss the withered cheek; 
Or some long-lost spirit mother. 

With immortal beauty fair. 
Kisses then the tear-stained lashes, 

Softly smooths the silvered hair. 

And we say that "Time, the healer. 

Knits the ravelled sleeve of Care," 
Dreaming not that unseen fingers 

Softly smooth the silvery hair. 
And at last, when none beside us 

Have a watchful vigil kept, 
They will wake to know Death's angel 

Smiled, and kissed us while we slept. 



TO MRS. J. M. MELROSE, WOODBINE COTTAGE, 
DBESIDE: 

Where the Almond's amber waters 

Through the forest glides along; 
And the pleasant braes of Lyndoch 

Echo with the linnet's song; 

On the mountain blooms the heather, 

On the hill-side grows the broom. 
While the primrose and the daisy 

Fill the valley with their bloom; 

Where the golden-flower'd laburnum 

Sv/ings her blossoms to the breeze. 
And the scarlet-berried rowan 

Stands — a king among the trees. 

Oh, my country! When thy memory 

Is not sacred to my heart. 
May the child 1 love forget me, 

And my hopes of heaven depart! 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



Like an exile, sad and weary, 

Thus I sang one summer's day- 
Pining for the pleasant faces 
In that dear home far away. 



I know that the primrose is blooming, 
In the shade of the green hawthorne tree; 

It perfumes the air of the evening; 
But no wind wafts the perfume to me. 

And the lark, from her nest in the heather 

Rises up, upon quivering wing. 
While her song, flowing down like a river, 

Seems sweet as the angels sing. 

In the woods, by the larch and the fir-tree. 

The yellow laburnum's in bloom, 
The hills are a-flush with the heather. 

And bright with the golden-flower'd broom. 

While the snow on the top of Ben Lomond, 
Is seen through the blue mists afar. 

O'er the vale, where the Tay through the forest 
Is gleaming in bright silver bars. 

And down by the green arbor vitae. 

Where the stream ripples down to the sea, 

The linnet her small nest is building. 
And the thrush warbles wildly and free. 

Their song may be heard in the garden. 
Where the myrtle and moss-roses grow, 

With azales and gay rhododendrons, 
And tall lilies, whiter than snow. 

Oh' sister, dear sister, remember 
Whose life all this beauty hath lost; 

Whose heart the wide ocean hath severed 
From all it had valued the most. 

And when in the spring-time you gather 
The wild flowers I never shall see; 

The violet, and blue-bell and daisy. 

Then kiss their sweet blossoms for me. 

It v/ere worth half the joys of a lifetime, 

If I might but wander to-day 
With you, through the green woods of Lyndoch, 

Where the Almond flows into the Tay. 



42 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



BEAUTIFUL MANSIONS. 

"In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were 
not so I would have told you." 

O, beautiful mansions immortal. 

Where grief and despair cannot come, 
No sorrow shall enter your portals. 
Or cloud overshadow your dome. 

Here is woe, though a palace enfold us. 
While innocence homeless may be. 

But there — for the Master hath told us — 
As the spirit, the mansion shall be. 

No desert our souls shall inhabit 
Or wander through regions of air. 

He shall gather his children together 
In the home he has gone to prepare. 

A city refulgent, eternal 

"Whose builder and maker is God," 

In Edens of beauty supernal, 

Whose paths by the angels are trod. 

There are "leaves for the healing of nations," 
And its streams are the rivers of life 

Beyond every ill and temptation 
Of Earth with its folly and strife. 

No glitter of gold or silver, 

Or of gems, the most priceless and rare. 
Can equal the glory and splendor 

Of the "mansions" awaiting us there. 



DECORATION DAY. 

Gather spring blossoms, the freshest and fairest. 
Decorate with them the graves of the dead; 

Bring from the gardens the richest and rarest. 
And twine into garlands, above them to spread. 

Bunches of violets and early blush roses, 
Buds that unfold in the sunshine of May, 

Shed all the wealth of their fragrance and beauty 
On the graves of the heroes we honor to-day. 

Pour them like wine in a sacred libation. 
Its incense shall rise to their spirits unseen. 

From altars where bendeth a rescued nation. 

Whose children shall still "keep their memory 
green." 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. I.IVERMORE 43 

Graves there may be that no friend can discover. 
Lost to their sight 'mid the conflict of war, 

Where resteth a husband, a father or brother. 
By prison walls lonely, or wilderness far. 

Sleep where you perished, beloved, unforgotten. 
The tears that we shed to your memories flow; 

The flowers that we gather, the garlands we offer, 
The honor and love of our grateful hearts show. 

Embalm them in song, and rehearse it in story — 
The toils they endured and the conquests they won; 

Of manhood the pride, of our nation the glory, 
Let their fame, never-dying, be bright as the sun. 



ONLY A LOCK OF HAIR. 

Only a lock of hair. 

But, oh, so soft and brown! 
It lies in my hand like some treasure rare, 
While I think how it shadowed that brow so fair- 

And the tears fall softly down. 

Only one little tress, 

From a beautiful baby head. 
That never another's lips may press. 

For it sleeps with the silent dead 
And out from that fair young face 

The living light hath fled. 

O beautiful baby head. 

With thy wealth of amber hair! 
When the precious soul from its casket fled, 

Who welcomed thee, darling, there? 
Who clasped thy form in a fond embrace? 

Who kissed that brow so fair? 

From that far-off heavenly land, 

Vv^hat beautiful spirit waits 
To clasp the little hands, 

When they pass through the pearly gates. 
That were folded so white on the quiet breast. 

When thy form in the grave was laid? 

Only one lock, just one; 

Yet, oh, how the hot tears start; 
Only a desolate home; 

Only a broken heart; 
Only a priceless life, 

Of which it formed a part. 



4 4 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



FAIR IS THE CHERRY TREE. 

Fair is the cherry-tree, 

Pride of the orchard trees, 
Herald of happiness. May-time is coming; 

See how the honey-bee, 

Roaming the garden free, 
Fills the sweet air with her musical humming. 

Through thy white plumes on high, 

Glimpses of Summer sky 
Rivals the blue of the flowers in the meadow, 

When the sun's golden sheaves, 

Soft through the emerald leaves, 
Fall on the greensward, so light is thy shadow. 

See where the apple tree 

Waves her wide branches free. 
Calling the bud and the bee to her bosom; 

Fragrant she is, and fair. 

Filling the morning air 
With the sweet scent of her rose-colored blossoms. 

Bride among garden trees! 

Gather ye birds and bees. 
Sing on her branches and hum on her bosom; 

Soon must her beauty pass. 

When on the dewy grass 
Falls the white snow of the cherry-tree blossom. 



IMMORTELLES. 

My love, my life! were I alone, upon some distant 

isle. 
Where but the glad waves answered back the smiKe 
Of the blue heavens, and ocean's murmur was the 

only sound 
Amid the depths of silence most profound, 

I'd call thy name aloud. 

Till it should echo from each white-winged cloud. 
And the far sky the syllables prolong, 
Raining them downwards in a shower of song, 
Or, borne upon fresh morning breezes, swells 
Up to some star where thy freed spirit dwells. 

And if thou answered not. 

Then should I say the past is all forgot: 
Earth, Vv^ith the beauty of her vales and streams. 
Youth, and the glory of its dazzling dreams. 

Are all rem.embered not. 



POE:\rS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 4 5 



And yet, and yet, could I believe it true, 
That memory fadeth like the sun-dried dew, 
And that bright Heaven of which we then had gleams, 
Absorbs each thought? No! Love and Faith 

and Memory perish not. 
My love, my life! though thou wert fathoms deep. 
On bed of sea-weed, sunk in dreamless sleep, 
I'd call thy name, the one dear name I love, 
Until it echoed through white coral grove; 

And thou shalt answer make. 

Bidding me patient be. 
Nor think the long years weary for thy sake. 
Although our fate of some relentless demon seems 

the sport, 
Love is eternal, life at best is short. 
When light shall tremble through our prison bar. 
And Death in pity leave the gates ajar. 
Then the glad cry of my freed soul shall be, 
My Love, my Life, I, too, at last am free! 



IN VAIN. 

'Gray rocks and grayer seas, with sands upon the shore; 
And in our hearts a face that we shall see no more," 

In vain for thee we breathe a prayer, 
And hope and fear alike are vain; 

The seaweed binds thy golden hair, — 
Thy dirge sung by the restless main. 

No marble, rising o'er thy tomb, 
From kindred hearts a tribute crave; 

Nor cypress, with its funeral gloom. 
Casts its deep shadows o'er thy grave. 

But wind and wave, in ceaseless strife. 
Are sighing 'round thy place of rest; 

And sad hearts mourn that fated life 
By the green forests of the west. 

They m.ourn thee in that distant home 
Thy wandering feet shall press no more. 

By gray rocks, where the breakers foam. 
And wave-washed sands of Elsinore. 

Ah! who can tell the deep despair 

Of thoughts that haunt the moaning sea, 

In hearts where every breath was prayer 
Of love and loyalty for thee. 



46 PR^^RIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



BEAUTIFUL ISLE. 

Gem of the deep blue sea, 
Heroes have died for thee, 
Died that thou might'st free. 

Beautiful isle! 
Loud let their requiem swell. 
While other lands shall tell, 
How they for freedom fell. 

Beautiful isle! 

Strong though thy spoilers are. 
Bright o'er thy hills afar 
Shineth fair freedom's star, 

Beautiful isle! 
Who can thy wrongs forget? 
Tyrants, a fearful debt — 
Thou Shalt repay them yet. 

Beautiful isle! 

Broken the hated chain, 
Woven by cruel Spain, 
Thou Shalt thy rights regain, 

Beautiful isle! 
What though thy vallies fair, 
Filled with their legions are. 
Sink not in dark despair, 

Beautiful isle! 

In thy vales no harvest waves. 
Red with a thousand graves 
Where sleep the young and brave, 

Beautiful isle! 
Gem of the deep blue sea, 
Heroes have died for thee, 
Died that thou might'st be free. 

Beautiful isle! 



CHILDHOOD'S JOYS. 

Earth's loveliness hath been to me 

A fountain of perpetual joy; 
A beauty in her face I see. 

That time or change cannot destroy. 

Since first I on her Alpine hills. 
In childish wonder turned my eyes. 

My heart with strange delight was filled. 
And love for earth and sea and sky. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 4 7 



Her soft green bosom was my bed. 
Her murmuring rills my cradle song; 

While in the blue vault overhead, 
I watched the white clouds drift along. 

I loved the morning's rosy light, 
The radiant sun at highest noon, 

And most of all the stars at night. 
Yet trembled at the silvery moon. 

For well my infant mind was stored 
With fairy lore and legends wild; 

Of haunted castles in the hills — 
Of dwarf and gnome and elfin-child. 

And yet I sought the loneliest nooks. 
By mossy crag and bosky dell. 

To find where first the primrose grew, 
The foxglove and the sweet bluebell. 

A nursling of the hill and brae, 
I had no words my thoughts to tell. 

But joyed in every new born day, 
I loved our Mother Earth so well. 



ISABELL. 

Are you fair as was your mother? 
Though I ask, you cannot tell. 
You were such a wee blue-bell. 
When the bonnie "'Rose of Rose-Craig" 
Bloomed among the mountain heather. 

Then you could not find a fairer 

Among Scotia's many daughters; 
And to naught could we compare her, 
But the happy name they gave her, 
Of the "Bonnie Rose of Rose-Craig," 
Blooming by the Almond Waters. 

Ask your father. He remembers! 

He will tell you all the story — 
Of the walks in dell and mountain. 
In the sunshine and the shadow, 
When the broom upon the heather 

Shone in all its golden glory. 



4 8 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Did she not deserve our praises? 
She was sweeter than the daisies, 
With her lips as red as coral, 

And a brow like drifted snow; 
While her heart, so true and tender. 
Beat within a form as slender 
And more graceful than the willows. 

Where the Almond waters flow. 

Kiss those lips, though they have faded. 

And her cheeks have lost their glow; 
They were redder than the roses, 
And her gold-brown hair, unhanded — 
How it glittered in the sunlight! 
In the summers, long ago. 

But our lives have had their trial. 
For the shadow on life's dial 

Has counted sadder changes far 

Than frost or falling snow; 
Yet our hearts are all the purer, 
And our love for her the truer. 
And the "Bonnie Rose of Rose-Craig" 

Is more dear than long ago. 



MISERERE. 

Spirits who dwell in the regions of bliss, 

Gather around me; 
If there be help for a sorrow like this. 
Clasp my hands close, lest the way I should miss: 

Darkness surrounds me. 

Down in the depths of a hopeless despair, 

Strong chains have bound me. 
Where passions are crouched like wild beasts in their 

lair. 
And haunting temptations to do or to dare. 

Whisper around me. 

Leave me no longer to struggle alone. 

In conflict appalling; 
How shall I tread the red wine-press alone? 
Of the dear friends of my youth, there are none 

To come at my calling. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. L.IVERMORE 



Who could endure the long anguish of years, 

Without help more than mortal? 
Nurtured in sorrow, and cradled in tears. 
Till every hope has heen quenched by a fear. 
Even from life's portal. 

Only one light can I see through the gloom. 

Of woes without number; 
Only one pathway that leads to the tomb, 
Losing forever earth's beauty and bloom. 

Where I might slumber. 

Dare I, uncalled, in His presence to go. 

He who so loved me. 
When the last drop in the vials of woe, 
When of His rod the last fatal blow, 

A coward hath proved me? 

If vainly your aid in this hour I demand, 

He will not forsake me; 
Help me more closely to cling to His hand; 
From the black waves and the treacherous sand, 

God only can save me. 



TRUE IT IS. 

Yes, old age is coming on me; 

Fall its snow-flakes on my hair. 
While the frosts of many winters 

Deeper chill the autumn air. 

True, life's evening sun is sinking 

Slowly in the purple west; 
Yet, though clouds its setting darken, 

I can say, "God knows the best." 

And the twilight shadows falling. 
Tell me that the night is near; 

Still, no phantoms from the darkness 
Rise to fill my soul with fear. 

For the earth is clothed in beauty. 
And the stars in splendor glow, 

Though the eye may lose its brightness, 
And life's lamp be burning low. 

And each lovely leaf and blossom 
Gives its perfume to the breeze. 

Just as fair as when in Eden 

God first planted flowers and trees. 



50 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 

Still the happy life of childhood, 
With sweet songs, by maidens sung, 

Fall as pleasant on my hearing 

As when "morning life was j^oung." 

And our friends seem truer, nearer, 
Dearer than they were of old — 

As we draw our mantles closer. 
When the night grows dark and cold. 

True, life's barque, storm-tossed and battered. 

Sailed across no summer seas, 
And with masts all rent and shattered. 

Floats no pennon to the breeze; 

And she drifts into the harbor 

With no song of triumph won. 
Glad to reach the peaceful haven. 

Glad her stormy voyage done. 



SEND ME A BUNCH OF HEATHER. 

Send me a bunch of heather, 

From the hills beyond the Tay — 
The hill where we sat together, 

On a by-gone summer day, 
When my hands are pressed together. 

And hid from the light of day. 
Let me clasp the purple heather, 

When my soul has passed away. 

And send me, as a token, 

A spray of the bonnie broom: 
When my heart as well is broken, 

And earth and its woes are done. 
Let me hold in my lifeless fingers 

Once more its golden bloom, 
And a ray from the hills may linger, 

To brighten the awful gloom. 

Send me a bunch of heather, 

To 'mind me of childhood's years; 
No fear that its bloom will wither, 

I will keep it fresh with tears. 
I shall know there are some who love me, 

Though I call and you cannot hear; 
For the heavens are dark above me, 

And my soul is filled with fear. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 51 

The sun looks down in gladness 

On all this fair, bright land. 
And the fields, in their rich abundance. 

Wave wide on every hand; 
The hills are crowned with beauty, 

And the streams laugh in their glee; 
But the sunshine is all for others. 

The storm and the night for me. 

Oh, why did I leave the valley 

Where the Almond's waters flow. 
And the braes where the purple heather. 

The pine and the fir-trees grow? 
Did the calm and the tempest spare me. 

And the wild waves bear me free, 
To die at last heart-broken, 

In this land beyond the sea? 



ASPIRATIONS. 

From this restless human ocean; 

May our aspirations be. 
Far above its wild commotion; 

Ever upward drawn to thee. 
Like the drops of vapor rising; 

All these stormy waves above. 
On thy blessed beams returning. 

To the source of light and love. 

Glorious Sun! whose rays life-giving 

Animate each leaf and flower! 
Drawing near thee all things living, 

By love's strong attractive power. 
Draw me near, nor let me falter. 

Through whatever suffering brought. 
Till the fire from thine own altar 

Purify each earthly thought. 

This, I asked in the youth's bright morning, 

Trusting in thy heavenly care. 
Earthly bliss hath been denied me; 

Fierce the furnace-fires that tried me, 
Father! thou hast heard my prayer! 

Is the long night near the dawning. 
When "joy cometh in the morning?" 

Aged, weary, trusting, waiting, 
Master! am I almost there? 



52 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



THOUGHTS. 

"There's rosemary; that's for Remembrance. 
And pansies, that's for Thoughts." 

Alas! how sorrowful, and how uncertain 
Is the poor tenure of our earthly life; 

Death, at a signal, drops the sable curtain. 
And in a moment ends the unequal strife. 



Does the freed spirit, like an uncaged bird. 
Linger beside its prison home of clay. 

And see the grief it never more can feel — 
The tears it would but cannot wipe away? 

When it awakens with a glad surprise. 
To be from pain and weariness set free. 

And opens wide the unaccustomed eyes 
On light our mortal vision cannot see. 

Thus, while the number of its earthly years 

Are counted by the solemn tolling bell. 
It turns, perhaps unmoved by grief or tears. 
To bid this earth and all its woes farewell. 
* * * 
Farewell! O, world of sorrow, 

Prom all thy ills I fly; 
Nor friend nor foe to-morrow 

Will seek me where I lie. 
Thy friendships cannot charm me, 
No evil there can harm me, 
Death of all powers disarms thee, 
Beyond their reach am I. 



SUNFLOWER AND HEATHER. 

The golden oriole folds her wings. 

As she sings in the maple tree 
And the red bird calls "Too sweet, too sweet!" 

O, red as a rose is he. 

He comes ere the Easter lilies bloom. 

Or the buds on the lilacs swell. 
To brighten with beauty the Lenten gloom, 

While his voice like a silver bell 
Rings out from the maple bough. 

In notes so shrill and clear 
Away to the woods where his brown mate broods- 

"Too sweet! What cheer? What cheer?" 



POEMS BY MAPJAN S. LIVERMORE 



And the crested jay, in his blue and gray, 

To his noisy comrades calls. 
To scare with their cries from the fluttering prize 

Their foe on the garden wall. 
But twilight comes, and the birds are dumb, 

Save the lonely whip-poor-wills. 
And I sleep to dream of a distant stream, 

Away in the Grampian Hills. 

O. clear and sweet are the waters there. 

That are fed by the mountain snows, 
And white are the sands and the banks are fair — 

The banks where the primrose grows. 
And the children stop on their way from school 

To play on the silvery sands, 
And drink of the waters clear and cool 

Prom the palms of their dimpled hands. 

While the lark, on high in the azure sky. 

Pours such sweet, pure music down. 
That hunters pause as they upward climb 

To the crest of the mountain brown. 
But the owlet hoots in the gathering gloom. 

And I wake to v/onder, then — 
Am 1 old in the land where the sunflowers bloom? 

Or a child in a mountain glen? 



The birds come back to their native trees. 
Though they fly to a distant shore; 

But the children who played in the maple shade 
Come back to their homes no more. 



"HEARTS OF GOLD." 

Bring me the harp whose broken strings 

I touch with trembling hand; 
To sing — but not of Scottish braes, 

Or fair Columbia's land. 
But could I sing, as once I sung, 

Inspired by youth's bright dream. 
Then might the music of my song 
Be worthy of its theme. 
For I would sing of truest friends. 

Whose hearts are "hearts of gold," 
The dear, kind friends, the faithful friends 

Who love us when we're old. 



54 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



The heart of age is like a child's, 

That shadows make afraid; 
The thoughts of age are with the past; 

They turn to youth for aid. 
For now the hands once clasped so close 

No more can touch their own; 
Alas for those who walk when old 

The path of life alone. 
Then blessings on the tender hearts 

Their worth can not be told; 
The dear, kind friends — the patient friends 

Who love us when we're old. 

As stars can make the sunless night 

More beautiful than day; 
And flowers that bloom along the path 

Can cheer the traveler's way; — 
(Those rare, sv/eet flowers amid the snow 

Of Alpine mountains high;) 
As streams that in a desert flow 

To those who faint and die; 
Such are the friends, the dear, true friends 

Who love us when we're old; 
Are they not worthy minstrel's song. 

Whose hearts are "hearts of gold?" 



LITTLE BELLE, MY DARLING DAUGHTER. 

'Give sorrow words, the grief that does not speak, 
Whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break. 

Oh, bid me not forbear to weep; 

But let these tears unceasing flow. 
Or else this aching heart must break, 

O'erwhelmed Avith speechless, tearless woe. 
Oh, would that 1 might then have died 

Wnen my life's life was torn away. 
That I might lay this weary head 

Beside my darling's lifeless clay. 

That last fond look, can I forget? 

The soft brown hair, the marble brow. 
The silken lashes, fringe of jet. 

The cold, pale cheek; I see them now. 
How on thy lips the parting smile. 

Too saintly sweet for aught of earth; 
Told that the pang that rent our hearts 

Had given another angel birth. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORB 



Oh, when my heart grew faint with woe, 

Why did its pulses throb again? 
And crushed beneath that sudden blow, 

Why wake to never-ceasing pain? 
All the bright earth, since thou art gone. 

Seems but a desert, waste and bare. 
And heaven itself no joy could bring, 

If thou, my darling, were not there. 

My angel thou, my morning star, 

The center of each hope and joy. 
The dearest gift that heaven e'er gave, 

The only bliss, without alloy. 
Then bid me not forbear to weep, 

But let my tears unceasing flow. 
Or else this weary heart must break, 

O'erwhelmed with speechless, tearless woe. 



"O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING? O, GRAVE, 
WHERE IS THY VICTORY?" 

(Mrs. Emma D- , a young wife and mother 

"Only one step more," she said, when dying, and sang 

"Glory to God in the Highest.") 

"Glory to God in the highest" she sang as her feet 
touched the strand 

Dividing death's swift rolling river from the shores 
of the beautiful land. 

"Glory to God in the highest," for earth, with its part- 
ing and pain, ^ 

Shall pass, like a dream in the morning, a shaaow 
that comes not again. 

One step and life's' journey is ended, I am nearing 

eternity's shore. 
No pain with its pleasure is blended, and weariness 

cometh no more. 
"Glory to God in the highest," as she leaned on a 

mother's fond breast, 
She sang as her spirit rejoicing in triumph had en 

tered its rest. 

One step and her farewells are over. 
She had crossed the dark river alone. 

And "Glory to God in the highest," 

Sang the angels, who welcomed her home. 



56 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



THE PALACE OF SCONE. 

There, many a palace in beauty excelling, 
With castle and mansion as stately as they. 

But where can the heart choose a lovelier dwelling 
Than the Palace of Scone, on the banks of the Tay? 

How proudly the blue hills are rising around it, 
How softly beside it the clear waters stray, 

While the wide spreading forests and braes that sur- 
round it. 
As calmly look down on the smooth winding Tay. 

The wood covered hills stand like sentinels 'round it, 
And quiet, in their shadow, the "Fair City" lies, 

While Strathmore's green valley is smiling beyond 
it. 
And far in the distance the Lomonds arise. 

Around thy grey turrets the ivy is twining; 

How gloss its green leaves, how stately thy towers! 
Thus grandeur and beauty together combining. 

Enrapture the eye with their magical powers. 

The smooth velvet lawn with its carpet of daisies. 
And green park and garden as lovely as they. 

Could the Eden that bloomed on the bank of Eu- 
phrates 
Be fairer than that on the banks of the Tay? 

How hallowed the memories that round thee are 
clinging. 

What dreams of the past to the spirit they bring. 
With time, the enchanter, his spell o'er thee flinging. 

Thou birthplace and home of "Auld Scotia's king!" 



LOGIE CASTLE GARDENS. 

Where freshly the breeze from the mountain is blow- 
ing. 
And the scent of the heather is sweet in the air. 
Where the waters caress the green banks in their 
flowing. 
Are Logic's bright gardens, once blooming and fair. 

Still blooms the wild primrose, the violet and daisy, 
With bright hued exotics, as lovely, as rare. 

Though the sweet-scented gail and the gay rhododen- 
dron 
Are none but a covert for pheasant and hare. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 57 



By the crimson azalia the hazel is growing, 

In the shade of the fir tree, the mock oranges 
bloom. 
The woodbine and bramble together are twmmg, ^^ 

And the bay is half hid by the "long yellow broom. 
By the brown arbor vitae the soft fern is springing, 

And the birch by the side of the green holly tree; 
In the cedar of Lebanon linnets are singing, 

And the wild deer beneath them may gambol as 
free. 
'Round the old castle walls the green ivy clinging, 
And the box from the borders half broken way; 
From the fruit trees neglected the long moss is 
swinging. 
And their branches, all leafless, look withered and 
grey. 
While the soft summer wind sighs for beauty de- 
parted, , ^ 
Through the emerald boughs of the dark drooping 
yew, 
Or wails 'round the dial stone, lone and deserted. 
Which marked the bright hours that once joyously 
flew. 
Where now are the riders whose gay steeds came 
prancing 
To foray or bridal, down woodland and glen? 
And where the bright beauties, whose light steps 
went dancing. 
To gather the roses that bloomed for them then? 

ON THE VERSES TO ALMOND WATER. 
They were written in the school room, 

In the days of long ago. 
Now the writer's hair has whitened 

And her cheek has lost its glow. 
But in dreams she sees the valley 

Where life's journey first begun. 
With the heather on the hillside 

And the rowans in the sun. 
And her voice will often falter, 

When her heart is far away. 
Thinking of a Scottish lassie 

That once played among the braes. 
While she sighs for life's sweet morning. 

And thirsts to drink once more 
Of the Almond's crystal waters 

E'er the journey shall be o'er. 



58 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 

ALMOND WATER. 
(A stream in Perthshire, Scotland.) 

Oh, I cannot, cannot listen for, my heart is ever 

straying 
t'ar away to Almond Water where the speckled trout 

are playing. 
In their sport the bright drops flinging on the bank 

and on the blossom, 
Where they rest like diamonds shining on the lily's 

snowy bosom. 

There the grass is ever greenest where the "Burine" 

joins the river. 
There the primrose blooms the soonest, and the 

leaves at noonday quiver; 
Oh, the honey-laden primrose, how it flashes on the 

sight. 
Like a smile from those we love best, like a ray of 

golden light. 

There the water loves to linger, when it ripples from 

the Burn; 
Underneath the dripping fingers of the graceful lady 

fern. 
While the linnet wakes the echoes with the music of 

its call. 
And the scarlet-berried rowan throws its shadow 

over all. 

In the glen, the torrents pouring down the mountain's 

craggy side. 
Over rocky torrents roaring till they mingled with the 

tide. 
And from mountain crest to valley was one line of 

snow-white foam 
Err the chafed and angry waters in the Almond 

found a home. 

Thus with slow, majestic motion, through the carse it 

sweeps along, 
Where, o'er harvest's golden ocean rise the reaper's 

merry song; 
Over shells and shining pebbles till the rocks impede 

its flow. 
When it plunges foaming, leaping, to the roaring linn 

below. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 59 



Where the mountain pass grows narrow, and the sky 

can scarce be seen. 
As the water, like an arrow, flashes through the deep 

ravine; 
Par, the heath clad hills rise upward, till their heads 

are crowned with snow, 
With a veil of mist around them and the crystal 

stream below. 

Had Burns, that sweet bard, seen thee, had he strayed 
thy banks among. 

With his bonnie Highland Mary, then thy praises had 
been sung; 

For thy wild, romantic beauty might awake his sweet- 
est lays. 

And the "silver winding Devon" been forgotten in thy 
praise. 



A SONG OF THE SEA. 
In the summer, when the flow'rs were blooming. 

And the birds made music in the tree, 
I heard a maiden singing, by the shore of the deep 
blue sea, 
"O, sweetheart, sweetheart, are you coming. 
Are you coming back to me? 

"Many the moons since we parted — 

Sad was my heart that day. 
When I saw the good ship sailing 

Far down the bay. 
Gaily her blue pennants fluttered. 

Her sails were whiter than the snow. 
Is she wrecked in the angry breakers. 

On the rocks where the coral reefs grow? 

"Was she sunk in Southern waters? 

Or safe in the sheltered bay. 
Where the sea-isle's dusky daughters 

Have stolen thy heart away? 
O, wind to the landward blowing. 

Bring back a message to me. 
For my heart like the wild wave is breaking, 

Breaking on the shore of the sea! 

"And I heed not the flowers in their blooming 

Or the glad birds singing in the tree; 
All day I wander by the sea-shore, all night of thee 
I'm dreaming. 
O, sweetheart, sweetheart, art thou sleeping, 
Far down in the depths of the sea?" 



60 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



MEMORIES. 

(The following poem was accompanied by a number 
of pressed primroses and foxgloves from New Zealand. 
The buds from which they were grown were taken 
from Scotland. — Ed.) 

"A primrose by the river's brim, 
Or by the cottage door." 

From far New Zealand's isle they come, 
And tho' their sweet, pale lips are dumb, 
They tell of Scotia's sparkling rills, 
And breathe of heather from the hills; 
Of sunny nooks in mountain dells, 
Where swing the foxglove's purple bells. 
On grassy banks they caught the gleam 
Of sunlight glancing on the stream — 
The clear, deep water, on whose brink 
Fleet-footed red deer pause to drink. 

Transplanted from such scenes as these 
To islands in the Southern seas, 
They touch with gold the emerald sod, 
Where once the Manori's footsteps trod, 
And still in peace are free to roam 
Where Scotia's sons have found a home. 
By cottage door, on banks of moss, 
They bloomed beneath the Southern Cross, 
Till, gathered by a sister's hand. 
They seek Columbia's distant strand. 

Bearing sweet messages of love. 

Like white wings of the carrier dove. 

From soul to soul, from heart to heart, 

Of kindred dwelling far apart, 

Dear messengers of love ye come. 

Fair children of the summer sun. 

We lift again thy cup of gold, 

To touch the chalice, as of old. 

And pledge with tho'ts too deep for tears 

The memory of our childhood's years. 



THE STORMY PETREL. 

Like the sound of an army with banners, 

Or the gale in the forest trees; 
Like the voice of many waters 

Is the roar of the angry seas. 
When the winds the wild waves waken, 

Asleep 'neath a murky pall, 
As the hosts of a mighty army 

Awake at the bugle's call. 



POii:MS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



When the spray from the foaming billows 

Washes the top-mast high, 
And the scream of the stormy petrel 

Answers the sea gull's cry; 
Then the spirit of man proclaims him 

A victor in the strife, 
Free as when God first gave him 

The breath of human life. 

He rides on the wings of the tempest. 

And treads on a conquered sea; 
And his soul in its strength feels kindred 

With Him of Gallilee, 
When he stands, not a slave, but a master, 

Unawed by the angry waves. 
That are cold as the glittering iceberg, 

And cruel as waiting graves. 

Then death is a foe undreaded. 

For fear can come no more; 
And he feels in the breath of the tempest 

A joy unknown before. 
But down in the seething waters, 

Or upon their foaming crest, 
Ever the stormy petrel 

Follows with dripping breast. 

Bright is the land-birds' plumage. 

And sweet are the songs they sing; 
But give me the voice of the waters 

And the dip of the sea-bird's wing 
When the spray from the foaming billows 

Washes the top-mast high. 
And the scream of the stormy petrel 

Answers the sea gull's cry. 



EASTER LILIES. 

The fragrance of Easter lilies 
Filled all the room at night; 

And I dreamed of saint and angel. 
Till dawned the morning light. 

They led me, while I slumbered. 
Away to the "Land of the blest, 

And beautiful Saint Theresa 
Was fairer than all the rest. 



62 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



And the snow-white lily she gave me. 
With the dew of heaven was wet, 

And a rose, from the bower of Eden, 
With sprays of mignonette. 

As sweet was the breath of their perfume 
As the air of that blessed land. 

But the fair, white Easter lily 

Seemed too pure for a mortal hand. 

And I laid it down on the altar. 

With a pra^yer that His love might cure, 

For only the Virgin Mother 
Seemed worthy a gift so pure. 

I thought they first had blossomed 
In the path where a Savior trod. 

Springing up in the print of his footsteps 
To smile on the "Lamb of God." 

Now they bloom with a beauty immortal. 
In the light of His holy Word, 

Fit offering to bring to the altar 
Where we vvorship a "Risen Lord." 



A PLEASANT CALL. 

Only just a little longer can't you stay? 
Life's few pleasures are so fleeting, 

Hours, like moments, pass away; 
Just a few cold words at meeting. 
Then good-bye must follow greeting, - 

Only just a little longer can't you stay? 

If from all the glorious summer 
You could only catch one ray 
Quivering through a captive window. 
Lighting up the lonely dungeon. 
Would you not beseech it stay? 

Striving with swift hands to hold it. 

Or with clasping arms enfold it, 

If, like you, it speed away, 

Taking with it all the brightness. 

All the sunshine from the day; 

Then alone, in gloom and darkness. 

You, like I, perhaps would say, 

Only just a little longer can't you stay? 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



VEGA LYRA. 

Vega Lyra! purest, fairest, 

From heaven's pure vault looking down. 
Where the radiant wreath thou wearest 

Glitters like an angel's crown. 

When earth rose in new-born beauty 
Perfect from her Maker's hand. 

Didst thou lead that wonderous chorus. 
Brightest of the heavenly band? 

When the morning stars together 

Sang the glory of their King, 
And the "Sons of God" rejoicing 

Made the vaulted heavens ring. 

Did the darkness veil thy splendor? 

Bent in grief thy crowned head? 
When the stars from heaven were falling. 

And the graves gave up their dead: 

While the angels looked in wonder 

On the Sacrifice Divine, 
For a lost world rent and shaken 

By her children's awful crime. 

There shall sound a grander anthem 

In a holier, sweeter song. 
When the fallen sons of Adam 

Rise redeemed from sin and wrong. 

And the wilderness shall blossom 

With the beauty of the rose. 
When the gates of Eden open 

Nevermore on man to close. 

Vega Lyra! comes the dawning 

Of a paradise restored; 
And the ransomed hosts of heaven. 

Hail with earth, a risen Lord. 



WAITING BY THE WAYSIDE. 

"The shadow of a great rock in a weary land. 

Yes, the way is long and weary, 
Fierce the sunbeams beat upon us, 

By the wayside we must perish 
If thy shadow rest not on us. 



64 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Boundless seems life's barren desert, 

Only death's dividing river 
Marks the goal v>^here weary spirits 

Lay their burdens down forever. 

But beyond, by cool, green meadows. 
Shall the "Gentle Shepherd" lead us. 

And beside the quiet waters, 

Bread of life, our Lord shall feed us. 

By that tree, "whose leaves are healing," 
None shall ever droop or languish, 

And no bitter tears revealing 
All the woe of souls in anguish. 

There no more we sadly ponder 
O'er each weary step we travel; 

Parted souls who meet up yonder 
All life's mystery unravel. 

In thy shadow, "Rock of Ages," 
Naught of evil can come near us. 

Though temptations fierce assaileth. 
Heavenly hopes shall bless and cheer us. 



DON'T FORGET YOUR MOTHER. 

Don't forget your mother, boys, . 

Whatever change may come. 
Still keep a warm spot in your hearts 

For mother and for home. 

Then don't forget your mother, boys, 

Whatever else you do, 
Through winter cold and summer heat 

She thinks alone of you. 

Though mountains rise and valleys spread 

And rivers roll betv/een, 
Yet don't forget your mother, boys, 

But keep her memory green. 

No stronger love than mother's love 

The human heart can hold, 
'Tis swifter than the winged wind 

And pure as beaten gold. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



The changing years that swiftly pass 

May bring you many joys; 
Remember that your mother's heart , 

Is bound up in her boys. 



DEATH OF GENERAL CUSTER. 
("Not a man has escaped to tell the tale; but it was 
inscribed on the surface of the barren hills, in a lan- 
guage more eloquent than words." — New York Wit- 
ness.) 

Oh! Custer, valiant Custer! 

Can the dread news be true? 
(The bravest band in all the land 

That wore their country's blue.) 
Dishonor never stained his name, 
Defeat he never knew. 

Oh! Custer of the golden locks, 

And heart that knew no fear! 
The land that honors heroes dead 

Shall hold thy memory dear; 
No lack of praise from bearded lips. 

No dearth of woman's tears. 

In all the southern battlefields. 

Where fell our nation's pride, 
No truer soldier ever fought. 

No braver ever died. 
Than rest within those deep ravines, 

Or by the river side. 

Be scorned, the envious voice would cast 

Reproach upon the brave 
To blast the laurels on the brows 

Asleep in honored graves. 
Who died from worse than carnage red, 

Our western homes to save. 

No lions in the jungle thick. 

Or wild beasts in their lair, 
Were half so cruel as the foes 

Who lay in ambush there; 
Not all their savage lives were worth 

Brave Custer's golden hair. 

The story of that fierce attack, 

Not one was left to tell; 
Of all the brave three hundred 



66 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Who perished where they fell, 
When warriors from each wild ravine 
Swarmed up like fiends from hell. 

Let vengeance swift their track pursue, 

Till not one lodge remains 
To shelter in its hostile folds 

The terror of tlie plains; 
Then Custer and his gallant band 

Shall not have died in vain. 



LITTLE WILLIE. 

A dear little baby boy. 

Only two years old, 
Loving, and gentle, and kind, 

The prettiest lamb of the fold. 

Busy with boyish play, 

In at the open door 
His little wagon he drew. 

Over the parlor floor. 

Answering his mother's reproof 
(Words remembered with pain), 

Tying the string to the table foot, 
"Mamma, it's doin' to rain." 

Swiftly the dimpled hands 

The little ribbons tied, 
'Ranging his pretty toys 

Carefully side by side. 



And down from the gathering clouds 
Came the chilling autumn rain. 

Shaking the trees in its wrathful mood, 
Beating the window pane. 

Till the wreck of the garden bowers 
Were adrift on the angry wave 

But, saddest of all, it fell 
On a little new-made grave; 

For away on the hillside green, 

Where the leaves were beginning to fade, 
And the last pale flowers were seen. 

Dear little Willie is laid. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 67 



He heard not the beating rain — 
Or the wailing wind that night — 

He felt not the bitter tears 

That fell on his forehead white; 

For the angel of death had come 

And lull'd him to sleep on her breast, 

And far from earth's storms and tears, 
Had borne him away to his rest. 

Vainly they listen and wait 

For a step that will never come; 

The angels have opened the pearly gate, 
And Willie has gone to his home. 

Never to laugh in his innocent play — 
Weeping and wailing are vain — 

Never again shall the dear lips say, 
"Mamma, it's doin' to rain." 



TO MISS ELLEN RICHARDS, ELLAND, OHIO. 

"Do the orchard and the vineyard flourish. 
And the balsams blossom where they used to?" 

Do the roses bloom in the maple shade 

As they blossomed long ago? 
Are the stars as bright in the heavens o'erhead, 

And the earth as fair below? 

Does the redbud wear its crimson robe, 
And the boxwood its snowy bloom? 

Do they fill the path with their falling flowers. 
And the air with their sweet perfume? 

Does the white rose cling to the cherry tree 

Where the earliest sunbeams fall 
(The sweet white rose of the Cherokee), 

And the vine to the latticed wall? 

Can you hear at eve, from the cottage door, 

The hum of the gathering bees? 
Is the grass so green on the smooth hillside. 

In the shade of the maple trees? 

Where the summer hours so swiftly glide. 

You fancy it all a dream, 
As you gather the flowers by the river-side 

Where the rocks o'erhang the stream. 



PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



And the whippoorwill comes in the twilight hour 

To utter his mournful cry. 
When the firefly's courtly fairy lamps 

Flash bright in the darkening sky. 

Do you wander forth on the starry eve, 

To trace the Northern crown. 
Or Orion bright, while the pale starlight 

Like a silvery shower rains down? 

The ruddy golden light of Mars, 

Or Lyra's purer ray, 
With many a far-off beaming star 

That gems the Milky Way. 

I have no wings, like the carrier dove. 

To bear me where you are — 
I cannot see the flowers I love. 

But I trace the same bright star. 

And deep within my inmost heart 

Shall all those memories dwell, 
While the same bright orbs in the starry skies 

Their lessons of wisdom tell. 



MARJORIE. 

Oh Marjorie! sweet Marjorie! 

You well deserve the name 
Once borne by lovely English maids 

And many a royal dame. 
No fairer child was ever born 

In palace by the Thames. 

Sweet as the perfumed flowers that grow 

On Easter lilies tall, 
White as the hawthorne buds that bloom 

When first the cuckoos call. 
Happy the mother who can watch 

Those dimpled hands at play. 

And kiss the cheek whose tender pink 

Outblooms the rose of May. 
Its sunlight's in thy laughing eye 

And in thy golden hair — 
Oh Marjorie! sweet Marjorie! 

Was ever child so fair! 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



The guardian of the brightest star 
That wears a jeweled crown, 

Sure left its radiant gates ajar, 
And let a Cherub down. 



VALLEY HOME. 
(Near St. Joseph, Missouri.) 
"Valley Home, so quiet and peaceful. 

Ere I seek your shades again 
Gladness may be changed to mourning, 
Pleasure may give place to pam." 

Thus I sang, one bright May morning, 

Ere the sweet spring flowers were gone; 

When, in happy tones, you bade me 
Sing of pleasant Valley Home. 

"Ah," you said, "in mJdst of pleasure, 

Why anticipate the pain? 
Sing for me some joyful measure. 

Not a sad, foreboding strain." 

See, the summer flowers are blooming 

On the hillside, all aglow. 
Where a happy girl went Maying 

In the days of long ago." 

Then my song was hushed in silence. 

Though my heart earth's radiance caught; 

I could only sing that morning 
W^hat unto my soul was taught. 

Though the fragrant cherry blossom 
Fell like snow-flakes where we stood. 

And the boxwood and wild apple 
Gleamed amid the tangled wood. 

All the air was music-laden — 

Song of birds and hum of bees, 
Where the brook, from spring showers brimming. 

Murmured, underneath the trees. 

Crimson stained, the stately tulips 

Held aloft their golden cup. 
Where the rare, sweet, yellow roses 

Drank the glowing sunbeams up. 



70 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Daz/Jling in their gay profusion, 
Snowballs nod on slender stems, 

From their leaves the dewdrops falling 
Like a shower of glistening gems. 

Still my lips were sealed with silence — 
Though my heart earth's radiance caught; 

I could only sing unto you 
What unto my soul was taught. 

Ah! my friend, those words foreboding 

Were prophetic of the doom 
That, unseen, unheard, was falling 

Over pleasant Valley Home. 

Turning all its joy to mourning. 
All life's pleasure changed to pain 

When your hearts, in bitter sorrow. 
Called the loved and lost, in vain. 

Like the summer flowers, she faded 
When her life was most complete; 

Holding in earth's golden circle 
All that makes our earth-life sweet. 

Autumn flowers have bloomed and withered. 
Other springs have come and gone — 

But never since that summer morning 
Have 1 seen fair Valley Home. 



BEAUTIFUL EYES. 
To Mrs. Milton Tootle. 

Beautiful eyes of darkest brown. 

By silken lashes shaded. 
And glance, like the starlight — trembling down. 

When the brightness of the day hath faded. 

Only a pause in the crowded street, 
Where the hurrying throng hath broken; 

Only a smile, so bright and sweet. 
And a murmur of kind words spoken. 

From a voice as sweet as a summer brook, 
Rippling under its fringe of roses — 

And a quivering flush on a rounded cheek. 
Like the tint where the sea-shell closes. 



POEIMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 71 



Only a glimpse of a face so fair, 

In the glow of the noon-day brightness. 

With only the dusk of the glossy hair 

To shadow the smooth-crowned whiteness. 

Many a joy in my heart must die 

Ere the sweetness of life hath faded — 

But never the glance of that dark-brown eye, 
With silken lashes shaded. 



LET ME BE GLAD AND FREE. 

Oh, let me be glad and free. 

As I aye have been — 
Roaming o'er the prairie lee, 

Or 'mid the wild wood green. 
Let me gather the fairest flowers 

That bloom in every clime; 
Let me sport in the sunniest bowers, 

And laugh at time. 

By the banks of the flowing river, 

Where the sparkling waters play. 
And the leaves at noonday quiver. 

Baptized by the silver spray — 
Away to the forest green. 

In its dim, lone shades afar, 
I would roam where none have been — 

'Mid the rocks where the pale flowers are. 

Where soft sweet murmurs float 

And no harsher sound is heard 
Than the lusty, warbling note 

Of the wild, free bird — 
'Mid forest or snow-cap'd mountain. 

On plain or prairie lee; 
By the valley's sparkling fountain. 

Or the shore of the surging sea. 

Oh, seek not my heart to sever 

From these, where'er they be; 
Let me roam — let me roam forever — 

I must and will be free. 
Then strive not to chain the spirit; 

'Twill beat 'gainst its prison bar, 
And seek what it must inherit — 

To be free as the angels are. 



72 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



NETTIE. 

Oh woe! Oh woe! the fairest flower 

Has withered in its morning hour; 

The pride and hope of home's sweet bower 

Hath faded in unfolding. 
The star that cheered a mother's eye 
When blackest cloud o'ercast the sky 
Has set, while yet the gazer's eye 

Grew brighter while beholding. 

Ere youth's fair spring was yet complete, 
And morning life and love, so sweet, 
To paths of roses wooed her feet 

She left their joys untasted; 
The cup that held life's sparkling wine — 
Filled to the brim by touch divine. 
Is shattered — and its rosy wine 

On earth's green bosom wasted. 



But see beyond, where, waiting stands 
The spirit host, with outstretched hands, 
To welcome to the sinless bands 

A new-born soul with gladness. 
Earth's weary burdens all laid down — 
Unheeded now its smiles or frown — 
The spotless brow, with radiant crown, 

Unshadowed is by sadness. 

Although with tears of bitter woe 
We lay thy form the turf below — 
O! let us look beyond and know 

That joy past mortal telling 
Await the ransomed spirit, where 
God's dear, beloved children are; 
And angel harps fill all the air 

With songs of rapture swelling! 

The eyes in pain that closed to sleep 
Shall wake to smile, and not to weep — 
We dread death's stream, so swift and deep, 

But she has crossed the river. 
The weary f set have found a rest, 
The patient, loving heart is blest. 
Where Jesus, on His own dear breast 

Shall fold his lambs forever. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 73 



FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. 

Farewell to thee, land of my fathers — 

Farewell to thee, home of the brave; 
The storm 'round thy mountains may gather, 

And the foam may be white on thy wave. 
Yet dearer than storm in its danger — 

'Mid the crags where the cataracts rave — 
Than the beautiful land of the stranger, 

Where soft breezes the orange boughs wave. 

Farewell to the hills where the heather's 

Sweet fragrance is borne on the wind; 
Wliere the deer and the roe sport together. 

And the rocks with wild ivy are twined. 
Farewell to the green grassy meadows. 

Where the primrose, the buttercup grows; 
The braes with their soft flitting shadows 

That the summer cloud over them throws. 

Farewell to thy beautiful valleys, 

And the carse, where the clear waters stray — 
Where the golden grain waves in the sunshine 

And the evergreen sparkles with spray. 
Oh, once more to look on Ben Lomond, 

Or listen once more in the glen 
To the notes of the cuckoo in springtime. 

Or the song of the mavis again. 

Then farewell to thee, land of my fathers — 

Farewell to thee, home of the brave; 
The storm 'round thy mountains may gather 

And the foam may be white on thy wave; 
Yet dearer than storm in its danger, 

'Mid the crags where the cataracts wave, 
Than the beautiful home of the stranger. 

Where soft breezes the orange boughs wave. 



TO MY EMPIRE. 

Now, my pleasant, bright companion. 
Dear as friend and kind as neighbor. 

Singing cheerful songs together. 
We commence our daily labor. 

Tell me in what words to praise thee — 
Fingers ready, foot so willing; 

For the fairy gifts that grace thee. 
Swiftly every task fulfilling. 



74 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Some sweet saint, from far-off Aiden, 

In her pity hovering near us, 
Saw us weary, heavy laden — 

Brought tills gift to bless ana cheer us. 

Than the song of birds in springtime 
Sure thy voice to me is sweeter; 

And no form in art or nature 
In all fitness seems completer. 

Thou alone art "true and trusty;" — 
Brightest hopes will oft deceive us. 

Friends will change with changing fortune, 
Riches oft take wings and leave us. 

From the thrones of far-off nations 

Queenly hands hath tribute brought thee. 

While ten thousand grateful women 

Bless the skillful hands that wrought thee. 



MIGHTY RIVER, THE MISSOURI. 

Mighty river, mighty river. 

Rolling onward to the sea, 
How my heart-strings throb and quiver 

While I mutely gaze on thee; 
Mutely, for 1 find no language 

To express the thoughts that throng 
Upward, from life's hidden center. 

Forced by feelings deep and strong. 

Oh! thou watchful guardian angel, 

Hovering o'er the piith of life. 
Keeping us from earth's temptations, 

Nerving us amid its strife, 
Plead with Him, the Ever-blessed, 

That He may my lips unseal, 
Giving them the power to utter 

What He bids my spirit feel. 

Then, thou darkly glorious river, 

Joyously I'll gaze on thee; 
\Vhen the overflow of feeling 

Shall gush forth, unchecked and free. 
I would gather inspiration. 

As thy waters sweep along, 
Until thought should find expression 

In a wild, enraptured song. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 75 



Round thy cliffs, so proud and peerless, 

I would tune full many a lay, 
Till sweet meter wed to music, 

Hallowed every hill and brae — 
Hallowed every sparkling island 

That thy whirling currents lave; 
Where the soft green fringe of willows 

Kiss their shadows in the wave. 

Towering cliffs, like walls of marble, 

Glistening through their leafy screen, 
Every grassy hill above them, 

Every sunny vale between. 
There the lonely cabin rises. 

Where the clustering wigwams stood. 
And the council fire no longer 

Glimmer 'mid the tangled wood. 

Yet the darkly running waters 

Long shall "keep their memory green,' 
When the children of the forest 

On the banks no more are seen. 
When the race of red-browed warriors 

From the earth have passed away — 
Shall thy sweeping waves roll onward. 

Dark, relentless, stern as they. 



LITTLE RALPH. 

Three little brothers went dancing by, 

All on a summer's day — 
Sent on an errand by good Mamma, 

But tempted awhile to play. 

1 spoke to the little ones on their way 
And, pleased with their bright reply. 

As they stood in the shade of the maple tree, 
"You are good little boys," said I. 

But two of them answered never a word 
(For what could the children say?) 

But looked with a smile at their small bare feet, 
And thought, "Is it bad to play?" 

But the youngest shook his golden curls 

And laughed in childish glee. 
While he merrily clapped his dimpled hands — 

"We's sometimes bad," said he. 



76 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



And I smiled to myself as the pretty boy 

Went dancing on his way, 
For well I knew his rosy lips 

Spoke the truth for us all that day. 

We learn, perhaps, in that higher school, 

Where we older children go, 
And we try to follow the golden rule — 

But "we's sometimes bad," you know. 



CRADLE SONG. 

Sweet be thy slumber, my infant, my darling, 

On the low mossy bank by thy tender cheek press'd 

Where the soft summer wind, as it sighs through the 
pine trees. 
And the murmur of waters has lulled thee to rest. 

The flowers of the forest are blooming around thee; 
The boughs of the forest trees droop overhead, 
Where on "bonnie burn-braes" by the clear Almond 

water 
Sleep the Lady of Lyndoch and the Maid of Kin- 

nead. 

Thy home is afar o'er the dark stormy ocean. 
And never again may thy foreheid be fanned 

By the fresh mountain breeze that blows over the 
heather, 
Or sunned by the skies of our dear native land. 

The white sails are spread, and the good ship is wait- 
ing 
To bear us away to our home in the West — 
Then sweet be thy slumber, my infant, my darling. 
On the soft mossy bank by thy tender cheek 
press'd. 



ROSE, ROYAL ROSE. 

Oh, lovely Rose, the fairest flower 
That ever bloomed in Eden's bower. 
Perfumed the vales, and crowned the hills 
Or fringed the banks of sparkling rills — 

Rose, radiant Rose; 
No other word our lips could frame 
Would be for thee a fitting name. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 77 



When He, surveying field and wood, 
Viewed the fair earth and called it good, 
And on Euphrates' banks prepared 
A home for man, by angels shared. 
He bade His swift-winged seraphs bring 
From heaven's own fields the fairest thing 
That blossomed there. 
To crown the heaven-created pair. 

And earth the parting gift hath kept. 
While ages o'er her brow have swept — 
Still on her breast shall bloom the rose — 
The gift that love divine bestows. 
While shines the sun, the rose shall bloom, 
To crov/n the bridal, deck the tomb: 

Rose, royal Rose! 
No other word our lips could frame 
Would be for thee a fitting name. 



FROM THE GLENS. 
To My Brother, Lyndoch. 

From the glens 'mid the heath-covered mountains, 

Oh, come to the greenwood with me, 
Vv^here sparkle our valleys' clear fountains — 

I'll twine there a garland for thee. 
The wild flowers their odors are flinging 

To the zephyrs that waft them along — 
Then come where the skylark is singing, 

While the blue vault is filled with his song. 

We will startle the rook and the roven 

From the gray rocks o'erhanging the stream. 
While the roebuck and hare from their covert 

Shall spring at the pheasant's wild scream. 
I know where the banks are the greenest 

And the earliest primroses bloom 
By the bower where the hawthorne, in blossom, 

And the tall firs make twilight at noon. 

Thou Shalt sing me the song that I love best, 

Where the rocks can its echo repeat. 
While the hyacinth, violet and daisy 

Look up from the moss at our feet. 
Oh, brightly the moonlight was beaming 

The last time I heard that sweet strain. 
And dark eyes 'neath the lattice were gleaming. 

That watch for my coming in vain. 



78 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



While I listen alone in the twilight 
To the tale that memory tells, 

P'or the voice of the singer is silent, 
And the "light guitar" as well. 

Then come, where all fragrance and beauty- 
Shall lighten the sadness of song, 

And I'll tell thee full many a story 
Of true love, and sorrow, and wrong. 



WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG. 

"Whom the gods love die young," 
Wise pagan lips could say. 

But we who live by gospel light 
Less Christian are than they. 

We bear them to the tomb 
With sable hearse and pall, 

And forms arrayed in robes of gloom. 
As if this earth were all. 

Forgetting that He said: 

"Forbid them, not to come;" 

To Him they are as dear as when 
He shared their earthly home. 

Oh, sad, ungrateful tears! 

Oh, blind and selfish woe! 
Less wise than pagan sages were 

Two thousand years ago. 

Is life to us so sweet? 

Are there no ills to dread? 
Can we for those beloved feet 

A path of roses spread? 



DREAMLAND. 

Slowly the gathering darkness 
Presses my eyelids down. 

And Lethe's sluggish waters 
The fields of memory drown. 

Slowly, silently drifting 
Into the land of dreams; 

Climbing the shadowy mountains. 
Bathing in crystal streams. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



Lost in its tangled thickets, 
Roaming through forest wild. 

Or resting on flowery meadows, 
Happy as when a child. 

Deep are the rivers of dreamland 

Flowing o'er silver sands, 
Lovely the dwellers in dreamland. 

Soft is the clasp of their hands. 

Sometimes like phantoms they vanish. 

Eluding each fond caress; 
Sometimes hovering near us, 

Their smiling lips we press. 

Twining the sweetest blossoms 
In the bands of their shining hair. 

Hours when the bliss of a lifetime 
Is pressed into moments rare. 

Gather, oh, welcome darkness — 
Murmur, oh, silver streams; 

Silently, sweetly drift me 
Into the land of dreams! 



TO MISS JENNIE SMITH, VIENNA, AUSTRIA. 
Afterwards Mrs. W. E. Hosea. 

Flowers from the Alpine mountains. 
From the land of the Rhenish wine — 

From the far-famed hills of Bingen — 
Sweet Bingen, on the Rhine. 

Gathered by dainty fingers, 

Fairer than sea-born pearls. 
Queen-rose of our green prairies — 

Oh, dearest of Western girls! 

Safely your message has reached me. 

Folded by loving hands, 
Bearing from over the ocean 

The perfume of other lands. 

In spirit I wander with you. 

Fair "Pilgrim of the Rhine." 
Through scenes that fill with rapture 

A glad young heart like thine. 



so PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Where each turret and lordly castle 

Its own wild legend tells 
From the summit of cloud-capped Rigi 

To the crags of Dracheniels; 

Past fields that are famed in story, 

By castle tower and town, 
Where heroes have fought for glory 

And conquerors won their crown; 

In the shade of the Niederwald forest — 

Oh! say, do you linger still 
On the banks of those gems of beauty 

That sleep 'mid the Alpine hills? 

Or now in far Vienna — 

Then tell me, if you can — 
Have you met in inn or palace. 

The far-famed Ritter Ban? 

I have wandered o'er land and ocean, 
And the years they have drifted along. 

But I never yet have found him — 
Only in poet's song. 

You may scatter sweet smiles and glances. 

The fairest where all is fair. 
When Austria's sunlight dances 

On the braids of your soft brown hair — 

You may gather from art and nature 

All treasures, rich and rare; 
But the glad heart, that beats so lightly — 

Oh! guard it with watchful care. 

While you climb the Alpine summit, 

And rock on the billowy sea. 
Bring back to the West, as you left it. 

Your dear thoughts, "fancy free." 



NIGHT AT LYNDOCH. 

'Tis night, and the dew is falling fast, 
And the crimson west grown pale; 

'Tis night, and the mist is gathering fast 
O'er meadow, hill and vale — 

And the fleecy, floating clouds at last 
Have dimmed the moonlight pale. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



And the trembling starlight is struggling through 

The parting clouds between, 
While the distant woods are hid from view 

Till their outline alone is seen — 
But you cannot tell the pine's dark hue 

From the larches' paler green. 

And the murmur of water is heard by night 

That you cannot hear by day. 
And thus when sorrow has veiled from sight 

Earth's gaudy, glittering days — 
The still, small voice, in the dim twilight. 

Is heard by the heart always. 
Lyndoch, 1854. 



MARY MOTHER. 

"With one prayer to Mary Mother, 
One cry for help and none to save." 

In thy heavenly home afar. 
Brighter thou than morning star. 
Where the blest and sinless are — 
Mary Mother, hear me. 

Bend to earth thy spotless brow, 
Clothed in radiant glory now, 
By the cross, 'round which we bow — 
Mary Mother, hear me. 

Thou art woman, thou hast wept. 
And alone thy vigils kept 
Where, in death, the loved ones slept- 
Mary Mother, hear me. 

By each wavering hope and fear. 
By each penitential tear 
And each hour of anguish here — 
Mary Mother, hear me. 

By each hour of deep distress, 
P^asting in the wilderness, 
Fallen man to save and bless — 
Mary Mother, hear me. 

Think of Calvary's summit bars; 
Plead our Saviour, suffering there — 
Blessed Virgin, hear my prayer — 
Mary Mother, hear me. 
Cincinnati, 1848. 



82 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



TO MISS EDNA VV- 



"Bonnie is no for me," dear lassie, 
"Bonnie is no for me." 

When I brush my hair, when I look in the glass- 
Tell me, what do I see? 

Only a withered, sorrowful face, 

Wrinkled and old and gray — 
Where time, with a pitiless brush hath swept 

The brightness of youth away. 

But the tender clasp of friendly hands 

And kind hearts, warm and true, 
Light up the darkness of our path 

And life's lost hopes renew. 

As falls on scorched and withered flowers 

The morn's refreshing dew — 
So dear to age youth's radiant smile. 

And eyes with beauty bright — 
Small wonder if their own, the while. 

Shine with reflected light. 

As in the sun's life-giving rays 

All beauteous color blends 
So love, the light of human hearts. 

Makes "bonnie" aged friends. 



EMMA. 



Emma runs, and romps, and plays. 

Happiest of little girls; 
Round her neck, the other day, 

Hung a shower of golden curls 
Falling on her shoulders white, 

Tingled o'er her pretty head — 
Now I ask you, was it right 

All those sunny curls to shed? 

Emma swings her bonnet blue 

If the sun shines, what of that! 
In her arms her playmates two — 

Dolly and her pussy cat. 
Pussy sometimes runs away; 

Emm.a runs, but cannot get her — 
Kitty has a mamma, too; 

I think she ought to teach her better. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE S3 



Sometimes Emma looks so grave, 

Listening to what is said, 
You would think a world of care 

Rested on her little head. 
}3ut if she is quiet too long 

I suggest, perhaps the kitty 
Has run off with Emma's tongue, 

Just to see her smile so pretty. 

In a flash, away she goes. 

Looking back so bright and saucy — 
Little Emma, you must know 's 

A very independent lassie. 
She promised me a golden curl 

From off her head, so bright and bonnie- 
The naughty fairies came one night 

And stole them all, nor left me any. 



CUBA. 

'There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, he cannot feel 

for man." 
'The natural bond of brotherhood is severed 
Like the flax that falls asunder at the touch of fire." 

Awake, Columbia! Art thou dead or sleeping? 

Hear Cuba calling; shall she call in vain? 
Wilt thou, too, say "Am I my brother's keeper?" 

Giving thy sanction to the crime of Spain. 

Is it enough that a free flag is flying 
O'er each valley of this fair, broad land 

While at our gates the blood of brothers crying, 
Struck to the earth by the oppressor's hand? 

From every wave that on our shore is beating 
We hear the voice of matron and of maid. 

And hill to vale in echo still repeating 
The storm of battle and the cry for aid. 

Awake Columbia! Let the voice of pity 

Thrill every heart at Cuba's matchless woes; 

Thousands stand ready in each crowded city 
To give defiance to her Spanish foes. 



THE GEM OF THE ANTILLES. 

Oh Cuba! all thy v/rongs and woe and sorrow 
Make our hearts bleed when we remember thee; 

Nor do I think that there can dawn a morrow 
When we forget that island of the sea. 



84 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



My heart is on thy hillsides where they rally 
To drive the invaders backward to the main. 

And in the sad homes of thy once fair valley 
Where weeping maidens mourn their lovers slain. 

Though born afar amid the northern mountains 
(Where Wallace died that Scotland might be free) 

I love thy sunny vales and sparkling fountains. 
Whose streams run crimsoned to the moaning sea. 

Oh, blackened walls! where happy homes once flour- 
ished, 

Bear witness mutely to the crimes of Spain; 
Yet perish, as their inmates perished, 

Than yield thee to her cruel rule again. 

Though Christian nations stand with pagan hardness 
And see Spain rend thee as a bird of prey 

Rendeth the helpless dove beneath her talons, 
God hears thy cries, and there shall come a day, 

A day of vengeance on thy proud oppressors 

When they have filled the measure of their deeds; 

A day of shame upon the guilty nations 

Who could, but would not, heed thee in thy needs. 

Around the earth Columbia's bell is ringing, 
Telling the story of her freedom won; 

Shall the clear echoes of that joyous singing 

Mock the red graves of Cuba's slaughtered sons? 



MEMORIES. 

Why is it that I cannot forget thee? 

That memories undefined 
(As if I, in some far off clime had met thee) 

Blent with thy image ever haunts my mind. 

Like the fond dream by sea-worn sailors cherished 
When age forbids his feeble steps to roam. 

Of lovely forms that long ago had perished 
In strange bright islands mid the green sea foam. 

Is it alone thy brow's unsullied whiteness, 
Or the deep luster of those dark blue eyes 

That by the influence of their starry brightness 
These airy visions of the past arise? 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



For if but fancy brings thy form before me, 
The dear remembrance of that distant scene 

While a sad haunting tenderness comes o'er me 
Like the sweet memory of some blessed dream. 

I see a valley where the sunlight lingers, 
For it looks down upon no fairer land; 

Though mountain-crests arise like dead white fingers 
Still pointing heavenward from an outstretched 
hand. 

While the blue bosom of the isle gemm'd ocean 
Rolls its great billows in with angry roar, 

Or murmuring low with soft caressing motion. 
O'er silvery sands to kiss the emerald shore. 

A-near the shore, with fragrant blossoms laden, 
Droop the green branches of a stately tree. 

Beneath the shadow rests a pale, sad maiden. 
Breathing her song of sorrow to the sea. 

Her snowy fingers o'er the harp strings straying 
Give all its sweetness to the fragrant air 

That floating round her, lingers, idly playing 
With the dark tresses of her waving hair. 
* * * 

A youth from a far distant country met her 
While he was wandering on a foreign strand; 

He saw and loved, and he could not forget her 
Amid the valleys of his own fair land. 

So deep one thought within his heart implanted; 

Lonely and restless as he wandered o'er 
Each distant clime, still was his bosom haunted 

By one fair vision on that seagirt shore. 

Once more his barque is o'er the blue waves speeding. 
No doubts assail him and no fears arise; 

Or if they should, are swept aside, unheeding 
The stars that guide him set in southern skies. 

Still waves the tree where the farewell was spoken, 
But ah! the voice is silent evermore, 

And the song hushed, for harp and heart were broken 
Or ever he had left his native shore. 



86 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



CHRISTMAS BELLS. 

Ring the bells merrily, merrily, 

While they peal out on the air, 
Let us look up where the stars are 

And see if bright angels are there. 
Angels, who brought us glad tidings. 

Visit our earth once again 
As when, on the plains of Judea, 

Jesus came down among men. 

Ring the bells merrily, merrily, 

V/hile the glad story is told. 
How He left the bright mansions of heaven 

To gather lost sheep to His fold. 
How blest, among women, was Mary, 

AVho held that dear Babe on her breast. 
While brightly the star of the morning 

Shone down on the place of His rest. 

Ring the bells merrily, merrily, 

Happiest day of the year; 
Surely bright spirits are round us, 

Jesus Himself must be here. 
Let us forget every sorrow, 

Only remembering when 
He "led captivity captive," 

And came bringing gifts unto men. 



MINE IN HEAVEN. 

Mine forever, mine in heaven. 
When this earthly life is o'er 

We shall meet to part, oh never, 
Meet where sorrow comes no more. 

There, in love and peace abiding, 
Nearer to the "great white throne," 

Every bliss and joy dividing, 
We shall know as we are known. 

Beaming from our radiant faces 
Every blissful thought shall glow. 

Banished evermore the traces 
Of earth's fear and sin and woe. 

Though our earthly hands impatient 
Beat against their prison bars; 

Fleeting hours shall swiftly bear us 
Where the blessed angels are. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 87 



The dear hands we press so fondly. 
Clasped in more than earthly love, 

May be parted here, but only 
To be joined once more, above. 

Still one blessed hope shall cheer us, 
Sweetest hope to mortals given. 

Those we love shall there be near us, 
Mine forever, mine in heaven. 



THY WILL BE DONE. 

"He shall sit like a refiner of silver." 

Lord, give us strength the lot to bear 

Thy love in wisdom meted out, 
And guarded by a Father's care 

To feel no fear and know no doubt. 

For thou hast trod life's weary path 
And more than mortal anguish known 

When friends forsook and foes in wrath 
Had crowned thy Sacred Head with thorns. 

We, too, must follow where He trod 
If we would to heaven's joys aspire. 

Nor tremble at the chastening rod, 
Nor shrink from the refining fire. 

Where souls set free from earthly dross, 
Their self-love and their pride laid down, 

Earth's dearest gain shall count but loss 
To shine fit jewels for His crown. 



'WHO GIVETH US SONGS IN THE NIGHT?' 

Who giveth us songs in the night time 
Of loneliness, sighing and pain? 

He woundeth — He also restoreth — 
Joy comes in the morning again. 

Who giveth us songs in the night time 
When friends like the summer birds fly, 

Replacing lost friendship with truer 
And wiping each tear from our eyes? 



88 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 

He sendeth us songs in the night time, 
In the depth of that uttermost night, 

When the tempter who charms to mislead us 
Takes form like an angel of light. 

Laying flower-covered snares for our footsteps 
Till blindly we stumble therein, 

Ke sendeth us songs in the night time, 
The midnight of sorrow and sin. 

He giveth us songs in the night time. 
When joy He alone can restore; 

Sweet flowers that His bounty hath lent 
Have faded to blossom no more. 

When we faint by the way 'neath our burdens, 
He teacheth how best they are borne. 

And we breathe the sweet fragrance of roses 
Where others see only the thorns. 

The day has its songs of rejoicing. 
When sorrow and darkness take flight. 

But He, whose deep love never slumbers, 
"He giveth us songs in the night." 



SAINT JOSEPH, FROM THE CLIFFS. 

Oh, fair, proud city, at whose feet 
The deep Missouri sweeps along! 

These autumn days, were it not meet 
To give thee tribute of a song; 

While in our hearts of days long past 
So many pleasant memories throng! 

We gaze upon thee from afar, 

Where the broad river rolls between, 

Past trees that toss their branches high 
To hide thee with a leafy screen. 

It needs a firmer barrier far 

To shut thee from our hearts, I ween. 

I see beyond the sunny slope. 
O'er which we rambled long ago, 

When youthful hearts beat high with hope. 
Impatient, more of life to know. 

They cannot hide thy soft blue sky. 
Or drifting clouds of purest snow. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 89 



I see afar thy glittering domes 

Flash back the sunset's golden light 

That falls on many a happy home 

Filled with fair forms and faces bright, 

And rising silent and alone 

Thy slender church-spires gleaming white. 

On yonder hill once smooth and green, 
Or covered but with tangled trees. 

Where many a wild flower grew between, 
And drew the honey-laden bees, 

A hundred happy homes are seen. 

Whose roses scent the summer breeze. 

And far adown yon crowded street. 

We gathered sweet spring violets there; 

No more the dear lost friends I meet, 
Who twined them, in their glossy hair; 

Only the rush of many feet 

Is heard where grevv^ those blossoms rare. 

All changed, as by some magic v/and. 
Yet still the pleasant spot I know. 

Where once the silvery willows spread 
Their soft green branches drooping low; 

But where are now those busy hands? 
And hearts with youthful hopes aglow! 

Alas! beside some grassy mound, 
Where many a silent tear is shed, 

I only find their graven names 
In the quiet city of the dead. 

Ah! better to have perished young 
Than live till hope and joy have fled. 



CARINA. 

On her snowy couch lying, a maiden was dying; 

Through the bright months of summer she faded 
each day, 
As a white lily broken, of its pain gives no token. 

But sweetly and silently withers away. 

On her young life no sorrow could come with the 
morrow. 
But her white lips move softly in murmurs to say, 
"Bring roses, red roses, and strew them around me. 
That my breath with their fragrance may mingle 
today." 



PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



"The summer wind sweeping above where I'm sleep- 
ing, 
Will scatter their blossoms around where I lie; 
Bring roses, white roses, all dewy June roses, 
Let me breathe their sweet perfume once more, e'er 
I die." 

"Tell, for I wonder! Do they bloom over yonder? 

Only fairer and sweeter in heaven's pure air. 
He clothed the white lilies. He painted the roses. 

In gardens of beauty they wait for me there." 



LAWRENCE (KANSAS). 

There's a voice from the distant prairie, 

A cry as of anguish and pain, 
Like the wail of the night wind in winter. 

It surges o'er valley and plain. 

And vainly our fields show their fullness. 
Our hillsides look smiling and fair. 

For the mutterings of anger and vengeance. 
Like storm clouds, are filling the air. 

For Lawrence, the fairest of cities. 
The pride of our beautiful land, 

In bloodshed, and terror, and blackness. 
Hath perished by traitorous hand. 

Like wolves from the forest in winter. 
In the silence of night they drew near. 

Unheard, till their fierce yell of triumph 
Woke the sleepers to horror and fear. 

Then father, and husband, and brother. 

So loyal, how bravely they fell! 
And sister, and daughter, and mother. 
Oh! who can their agony tell! 

When striving to shield one another. 
They clung to each loved one in vain; 

Or swooning, with anguish and terror. 
Awoke but to die in the flames. 

Thus perished the martyrs of freedom. 

In loyalty, stainless and true. 
O, Kansas! thy best and thy bravest 

Have died for the "red, white and blue." 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



We have borne the first shock of the battle, 

Resisting oppression and wrong; 
Now we call on our country to answer 

How long shall they triumph? How long? 
We had driven each foe from our borders, 

But worse than the savage is here; 
Shall we answer the shrieks of their victim 

With only the falling of tears! 
While the ashes of altar and homestead 

Are drenched by the cold autumn rain, 
And the dwellings made sacred by virtue 

Crumble over their blackened remains. 
Where they sleep by the banks of the river. 

Shall their blood cry for venegeance in vain 



NEMESIS. 
Crouched in the jungle the fierce tiger lies, 

Hid where rank foliage quivers in the air. 
The baleful gleaming of his cruel eyes 

First warns us to beware. 
We do not need to see the serpent pass 

To find his hidden lair; 
We see his trail upon the tender grass, 

And know he has been there. 
So with false friend, and cruel treacherous foe, 

Hid by some fair disguise. 
Nature betrays them, whersoe'er they go, 

Their trail is slander and their refuge lies. 
The heel of truth shall crush the serpent's head. 

And all his foul brood perish with the blow. 
The hunter's arrows find the tiger's heart 

And lay his fierce head low. 
Where even-handed justice holds the scale. 

The wrong shall be redressed without a doubt, 
The "mills of God grind slowly," but at last. 

Measure for measure, shall be meted out. 



THE BIRCHEN BOWER. 
There was a fragrant birchen bower, 

On sunny hills beside the sea; 
At twilight hour, within that bower. 

Was heard light laughter ringing free. 
Gay as the carroling of birds 

Around the bower, beside the sea. 



92 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



And all was peace above, below, 
And all was joy in earth and air, 

No thought or dream of future w^oe. 
For love and innocence were there. 

No orange bower in Eastern clime 

Was e'er more fragrant or more fair. 

Love's own sweet flower, forget-me-not, 
Bloomed with the daisies on the lea. 

And roses, wild, around it smiled. 
With song of bird and hum of bee. 

And angels watched with faces mild. 
Around the bower beside the sea. 

But ah, the hour of parting came! 

A white sail gleamed upon the sea. 
And words of love were whispered then. 

With fairer hopes of joy to be. 
And tears that fell like summer rain, 

It would have grieved the heart to see. 

When, in the west, the sun has set. 

And murmurs sad the sounding sea. 
And on the grass the dew is wet, 

And stars look down on bower and tree. 
No more is heard at twilight hour. 

Light sounds of laughter, ringing free. 
One weeps within the lonely bower. 

And one is on the stormy sea. 



TO MISS ALICE CAREY. 

Sweet minstrel, touch thy harp once more. 

We wait the welcome song: 
And let Miami's wooded shore 

The silvery notes prolong. 

For Spring, that with a lavish hand, 
Showers all her gifts on thee, 

Weaves languidly the robe that decks 
Our green prairie lea. 

So long amid thy sunny vales 

She lingers on the way. 
We wait with weary hearts the while 

The coming of the May. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 93 



In many a pleasant cottage home. 
On hill and dale and plain. 

Where absent hearts are pining for 
Ohio's streams again. 

With all their cherished memories 

Of other happier hours, 
Then tell us of her woodland wild, 

And tell us of the flowers. 



"BALMY SPRING." 

"What liars poets can be." 

— Fanny Fern in N. Y. Ledger, 1877. 

Dear Fanny, don't say so, I pray you! 

Just think where your censure descends; 
A blame so unlocked for and cruel, 

To come from the hand of a friend. 

Even I, far away to the westward. 

Have loved you for many a year. 
While I claim, not a leaf of the laurel. 

The fame of the poet is dear. 

1 think, in a moment of anger. 

Like David, you, too, spoke in haste, 

And when I reflect, I scarce blame you. 
Of those "muses" I once had a taste. 

I slept, just six nights, upon Broadway, 

In one of your famous hotels; 
No! sleep from my eyelids afrighted, 

Fled at the first clang of the bell. 

And I thought, while I tossed on my pillow, 
To strive for sweet slumber, in vain. 

Not even the great Crystal Palace 
Should tempt me to Broadway again. 

I can sleep like a child on the ocean. 
In the midst of the tempest's wild roar, 

Or, far out on the" lonely prairies. 

But I'll venture on Broadway no more. 

Rash words! they, in haste, too, were spoken, 
For, could I see Beecher, I'm sure 



94 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



With Fanny, and Greely, and Bonner, 
That torture again I'd endure. 

Last night, while I sat by the window, 

I think that if you had been there. 
You would say that the air could be "balmy," 

The moonlight surpassingly fair. 

Not a sound or a voice broke the silence 

In that hour of delicious rest, 
While the breeze through the dewy leaves trembled, 

And the young moon shone clear in the west. 

And over the face of the sleeper 

The south wind refreshingly blew, 
Sweet with the fragrance of roses 

And sweet-briar laden with dew. 

While I bent my tired head on the casement, 
Thanking God for the beautiful night, 

The cares that had haunted the daylight 
Were lifted by fingers of light. 

Don't think me some maiden romantic. 
With nerves that are proof aganst noise, 

But a mother, discouraged and weary. 
With more than a handful of boys. 

Who have, each, found perpetual motion, 

From dawn till the daylight is done, 
With heads brimming over with mischief, 

And hearts brimming over with fun. 

And yet, while I sat by the window, 

My thoughts to the eastward would stray; 

Tomorrow, the day for The Ledger, 
I will see, then, what Fannie will say. 

When I clasped it with fingers impatient. 

The very first lines I should see 
Were the last cruel words of your letter, 

"What liars the poets can be!" 

Dear Fannie, go into the country. 

Tell Bonner "good-bye" until fall. 
Then say that the poets are truthful. 

And spring is so welcome to all. 



POEMS BY IMARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



LOUIS NAPOLEON AT WINDSOR. 

Turn thy thoughts westward, England's royal queen, 

Let not America appeal in vain. 
While Prance lies bleedng at a conqueror's feet, 

The traitor-tyrant pleads his unjust claim. 

While he is pleading let thy heart be steel. 
And turn a deaf ear to the syren's song, 

Lest thou, like Saul, in blind mistaken zeal. 
Shall crush the right and sanction giant wrong. 

When France's tyrant led her sons to war, 

To scenes of carnage brought his own fair Roy — 

Proving the ancient adage, once more, true, 

"The gods make mad whom they would first de- 
stroy." 

And when they fled before the Prussian host, 
Or stood, unmoved, a wall of living stone, 

Falling in legions e'er the field was lost. 
Did Frenchmen yield to mortal foes alone? 

No! far above the battle's awful roar 
Hosts of avenging angels swept along, 

Their banners red v/ith Maximilian's blood. 
Their battle cry was "Poor Carlotta's" wrong. 

Beware, ye princes who would wisely rule. 
Lest ye be blinded by his treacherous art! 

Who lured brave Maximilian to his doom. 
And broke Carlotta's faithful, loving heart! 

Remember Prussia, in thy hour of pride. 
The merciful, God's mercy shall obtain. 

Remember, England, though thy realms be wide. 
Without His aid, "The builders build in vain!" 



TO ESTHER MARIE LIBEL. 

Wathena, Kansas. 

"Oh! Esther Marie, a sweet babe are you — 

You were born in old St. Joe; 

You came over here so fair and so dear. 

With your papa and mamma to grow. 

And Jessie, who nursed you and loved you so well, 

She never let you fall. 

Oh! I have a long story to tell. 

But I cannot tell it all." 



PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATIIER BELLS 



THE BRIDGE OF TAY. 

Beautiful river of my native land! 

What awful horror rests upon +hv wave. 
Where bitter tears and empty, outstretched hands 

Plead for the dead who found in thee a grave. 
No voice can wake them from that dreamless sleep, 

Deep as the waters that above them flow; 
How cold and pitiless they onward sweep, 

Unknowing and unheeding human woe! 

When last I saw thy clear blue "graves, they shone, 

Flashing and sparkling, in the summer ray; 
And ever since, sweet thoughts of youth and home 

Came with the memory of the River Tay. 
But now my eyes with tears unbidden fill. 

Even at thy name, ill-fated Bridge of Tay; 
My aching heart a shuddering horror chills. 

From haunting spectres that will not away. 

I hear the rushing of the mighty wind. 

The raging of the angry waves beneath; 
Pale moonbeams struggling through the murky 
clouds. 

Black with the shadow of that coming death. 
No sound above the wild tornado's roar. 

Only the red lights flashing through the gloom. 
Can tell the watchers on that stormy shore 

That human souls move swiftly to their doom. 

Brother and sister, sitting side by side, 

And bright-eyed children, full of merry play, 
The bridegroom speeding to his absent bride. 

Ah! nevermore to see the light of day! 
One awful moment of such deadly fear, 

A cry of mortal agony and woe. 
Then the dread tempest, with resistless power, 

Hurled bridge and train into the gulf below. 

Merciful God! can man or angel tell 

The unfathomed horrors of that living tomb? 
Grant that oblivion wrapt them in its fall, 

So that they went unconscious to their doom. 
Now, sad, pale faces for the divers watch. 

Who dare the dangers of the unknown deep. 
To give their loved ones to their gaze once more, 

And mournful burial where their kindred sleep. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 97 



Poor breaking hearts! it may some comfort bring 

To look on those dear faces once again, 
But vainly to their lifeless forms you cling — 

They know no sorrow, and they feel no pain. 
And just as quiet would be their dreamless sleep, 

Where the deep Tay rolls onward to the sea, 
As if they rested underneath the sod. 

In the dark shadow of the cypress tree. 



REST. 



"Where the wicked cease from troubling 
And the weary are at rest." 

Lord, give me rest 

Within the quiet grave. 
Rest for the aching heart and throbbing brain, 
And for each nerve out-worn and racked with pain. 

This is the rest I crave. 

Lord, give me rest in death. 
So hard and heavy is the cross I bear. 
So steep the hill my weary feet must climb, 
That I can never reach those heights sublime. 

Of patient suffering and unwavering faith. 

Rest, for the weary eyes. 

Tired of the light of day; 
Although so precious is the boon of sight, 
While the blue heavens pour down such floods of 

light, 
And earth and sea, and clouds so lovely are. 

But I have so many ills below. 
Ills that I could not cure, 
Sorrows too gpeat for mortal to endure. 
Where loving hearts most faithful and most pure, 
Writhed in the anguish of a hopeless woe. 
That I am weary more than words can tell 
And glad would I bid earth and its scenes fare- 
well 
And go where peace forever shall endure. 

So have I seen an over-wearied child 
When, at the close of a long summer day. 
Tired with its childish troubles and its play, 

So tired it could but weep — 
Till, folded on its mother's patient breast 
And rocked, within her loving arm, to rest. 

It sank into a happy, dreamless sleep; 



98 PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



Thus would I rest within the peaceful grave. 

As on a mother's tender, watchful breast. 
Till morning dawns, when life's long night is o'er. 
Where sorrow, wrong and trouble come no more. 
In the sweet land of everlasting rest. 



LOGIE COTTAGE. 

A cottage stands by Logic's wood; 

And if it were my home 
I'd sigh no more by land or flood 

In distant climes to roam. 

For in that forest-sheltered cot 

So swift the moments fly, 
I could forget I e'er had roamed 

Beneath a fairer sky. 

There's beauty in the landscape 'round, 

Health in the mountain air 
And, better far, than rank or wealth, 

Content and pleasure there. 

O! if one friend were with me here — 

The dearest and the best — 
Whose lonely footsteps wander near 

The river of the W^est. 

I'd woo thee from thy native land, 

If this dear cot were mine; 
I know this quiet, sequestered spot 

Would suit a heart like thine. 

And leave the city's pomp and pride, 

The busy haunts of men. 
To wander by the river's side. 

The woodland and the glen. 

Or rest on m.ossy banks, beneath 

Clanalpine's stately pine, 
Beside the buck tree's waving boughs. 

Where the green ivy twines. 

And listen to the blackbird's song — 

The linnet and the wren. 
And the music of the Burnie clear 

That splashes through the den. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 



Thou wouldst forget Brazilian climes 

And glowing azure sky, 
When health once more was on thy cheek 

And gladness in thine eye. 

The daisies in the birchen bower 
More sweet would seem to thee 

Than the pale cammilia's perfumed flower. 
Or tall magnolia tree. 



GUESS WHO? 
Written for Mrs. I. A. Chandler, 

Fair as a lily, with soft brown eyes; 

Graceful and sweet, to her garment's hem — 
A waxen lily, pure and white, 

That bends to the breeze on the slender stem. 

Full of womanly, tender ways. 

From the cheeks' soft flush to the brow of snow; 
From the shadows that rest on her dark brown hair 

To the smile so sweet and the voice so low. 

Ah! when I look on that face so fair 

I sigh — "Sweet Saints in the courts above, 

Give me a tithe of her beauty rare 
To win the hearts of those I love." 

If her eyes on these lines sh'd chance to rest 
And herself her own sweet picture know, 

No flush of shame her cheek need tinge — 
'Tis only a woman admires her so. 



BEAUTY AND SONG. 

Written in answer to a letter from a friend asking, "Do 
you still love poetry and song as much as when you were 
a girl?" 

Do I love the flowers that blossom? 

Do I love the stars that shine 
With the brilliance of the diamond 

From the darkness of the mine? 

Do I love the raindrops falling 

From the clouds that gave them birth, 



TOO PRAIRIE FLOWERS AND HEATHER BELLS 



While the rainbow's arch of beauty 
Spans the valleys of the earth? 

Do 1 love the song that cheers 
And prompts to deeds that bless, 

As I love the face of childhood 
Or an infant's fond caress; 

With its eyes of sunny brightness 
And the sweetness of its smile 

Ere the soul has lost its whiteness 
Or the heart is touched with guile? 

I have missed full many a blessing 

That happier mortals crave, 
But this love has had its mission 

And will live beyond the grave. 

We have passed a full decade 

Beyond the three score years and ten, 

And many are the changes 

Our lives have seen since then. 

But I don't forget the singers. 
Nor yet the songs they sung, 

On the banks of the Miami 
In the days when we were young. 



FATE. 



When the arrow of the hunter 

Pierced a soaring eagle's heart 
And the crimson drops ran downward, 

Staining all the cruel dart, 
As she lay on the greensward dying. 

No more to gaze on the sun, 
She heeded not the hunter 

Whose hand the deed had done. 

It was not his hand that slew her, 

Or the cold dart's cruel sting 
But the feather which sped the arrow 

Had fallen from her nestling's wing. 
She had looked on the glossy plumage 

Which had once been her joy and pride. 



POEMS BY MARIAN S. LIVERMORE 101 



And closed tier eyes in silence 
And broken hearted died. 
* * * 

Thus human hearts are broken 
And yield to the doom of fate; 

They die with their grief unspoken. 
For the knowledge comes too late. 



A FAMILIAR SONG. 

I can hear the red bird singing, 
And I know the song he sings. 

But 1 cannot see his crested head, 
Or the color of his wings. 



VALE. 



I could not stay to say farewell; 

Death came while I was sleeping. 
He touched the eyelids wet with tears, 

The weary heart ceased beating. 

He came from realms of light and love, 

A welcome message bringing 
It seemed as in the heavens above 

I heard sweet voices singing: 

'•Come away from the hunts of the leopard, spouse. 
Come away from the den of the lion. 

Come away to the tents of the Shepherd, spouse. 
Come away to the mountains of Zion." 

His touch unloosed the silver cord 

That bound me to the day, 
And the freed spirit rose to greet 

A never ending day. 

The tall trees through their quivering leaves 

Sighed as we passed above them. 
As if they knew that one had gone 

Who long and well had loved them. 

I would not break your needed rest. 

Or dim your eyes with weeping, 
My true and tried and faithful friends, 

God have you in His keeping. 



Dm 27 mo 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



